


Crawl, Walk, Run

by elise_509



Series: Move On, Let Go [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: But still mild spoilers, Multi, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Pre-Relationship, Slow Build, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-07-27 16:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 44,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20048980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elise_509/pseuds/elise_509
Summary: The Snap goes differently. Peter loses Mr. Stark, and Steve loses so much more.Over the next five years, Peter and Steve build a friendship. And while sometimes friendship is just friendship, other times it can lead to romance.This is one of those times.Prequel to:Snap, Break, Bend





	1. 2018

**2018**

Steve stares at the ashes running through his fingers, unable to fully comprehend what he’d just witnessed. He desperately tries to hold on but the last evidence of his best friend’s life sifts through his grasp and drifts away on the wind. Bucky’s voice echoes in his mind, over and over and over. The way he’d said his name, confused and sad, as if he knew something was horribly wrong but couldn’t understand what was actually happening. 

Thor stands a few paces back, his hand still clutched tightly around his battleax and his gaze locked out on the jungle, like he expects Thanos to come back any moment. 

Thanos is not coming back. He did what he came to do and now it’s over. 

Steve manages to get up and stagger a few steps forward to where Vision lays on his back in the dirt. His body is deathly gray, a gaping hole in his crushed skull where the glowing yellow Mind Stone used to be.

“What the hell just happened?” Rhodey cuts through the haze and Steve hears Natasha run up behind him, stopping short. There were no screams as half the world died; only stunned silence. 

“Oh god.” The reality of it all washes over him, seeping in slowly like poison running through his veins. 

“He really did it.” Natasha whispers, and he turns toward her. He’s never seen her so lost and afraid. She looks around them, her eyes wide and her mouth half-open in a gasp that never quite ended. “Steve, he really did it.” 

“I…” He has no words for her. No reassurances. They stay there, dumbfounded by the magnitude, the _enormity_ of what has occurred. 

Thanos won. 

They _lost_. 

Bruce is standing behind them, still in the Hulkbuster armor, and he’s the first to break the quiet.

“What do we do now?” His voice pitches in panic. Steve can only stare at the dust that lingers in the air. Bucky’s _face_, oh god.

Why couldn’t it have been him? If half the world was gone, why couldn’t he have gone with it?

“Steve.” Natasha says once, that in and of itself an urging for him to take the lead. 

Steve looks up and finds that others have joined them, the small clearing apparently becoming the gathering point for the left behind. Everyone is shell-shocked, speechless. 

He tries to find his voice. He somehow needs to be strong even though he has nothing left in him. 

“We…” Steve pushes himself to stand, trying not to think about the ashes crushed underneath his boots. “We need to re-group. Figure out who is gone and who is still here. Let’s…let’s start there.”

Natasha nods, once. 

“But they’re all gone, Steve, what are we going to _do_?” Bruce presses, a note of hysteria crowding in, demanding that Steve be the one to have all the answers. 

“What we _can_ do,” Steve fires back sharply, then pulls himself back from the edge. “Has anyone seen Wanda?” She was with Vision and now she’s not. He already knows the answer but he’s hoping he’s somehow wrong. 

“T’Challa is gone. He turned to dust right before my very eyes.” Okoye intones sorrowfully. 

“Groot. He…” Rocket says, unable to say anything more, but it’s enough. 

“I couldn’t find Sam.” Rhodey states and Steve whips his head toward him, his stomach bottoming out all over again. “I don’t know who else went.” 

“We have to get back to New York as soon as possible, start strategizing how to handle the fallout. It’s not just us, here, it’s the whole world—“

“The whole universe—“ Natasha interjects.

“And everyone’s going to need our help to get through this.” Steve squares his shoulders even as his whole life is crashing down around him, yet again. He pushes down the swell of emotions rising, feeling everyone’s eyes on him, looking for a leader. He can’t fall apart. 

“We failed. And now we have to answer for it.”

*******

“Mr. Stark?” Peter clutches at Tony, terrified, as Dr. Strange simply fades away into nothingness. The Guardians are already gone, all three of them. Peter desperately tries to cling to Tony’s arm even as it starts to fall apart in his hands. “No, no, _no!_ Mr. Stark, no, don’t leave me here alone. Don’t go.”

“I’m sorry, kid.” Tony’s face turns from shock to resignation, blinking away the tears in his eyes even as they turn to dust. Peter tries to hold on but there’s nothing to grasp any longer as his arms collapse into ash. “Tell Steve…” 

Whatever he was about to say is lost forever and there is only emptiness where Tony Stark used to be. 

He grabs at the air as if he could somehow keep the remnants of Mr. Stark together but it’s useless. He’s gone. Everyone is gone.

“He did it.” Nebula is still there. 

She looks at him, once, and then turns and walks toward Quill’s ship. One of its wings was clearly damaged during the fray, and who knows what else. 

It takes Peter too long to notice she’s intent on leaving, and when he realizes it, he almost just sits there and lets her go. But somehow he manages to get himself up and after her. 

“Where are you going?”

“Can’t stay here.” She tosses back over her shoulder as she climbs the ramp of the ship. “I don’t know how far this piece of junk will manage. But it’s all I’ve got.”

“I need to get _home_.” It’s all hitting him now; it’s throughout the entire universe, not only here, on this broken planet, that people just up and disappeared. “My Aunt May. My friends. Oh god, what about the rest of the Avengers.” 

“The probability is that most of them are gone as well.” Nebula retorts with little compassion. “My father said he would cull half the population, and that is exactly what he has done.” She goes deeper into the ship and Peter follows, at a loss. “Tony spoke of you as intelligent. If we wish to make it to Terra, this ship will need repairs beyond my own capabilities.” 

She looks at him, waiting for a response. 

“You…are you asking if I can make repairs to a spaceship?” Nebula continues to stare blankly, not amused. “I’m 17! I'd never even been on a spaceship until yesterday!” But there’s still no reaction from the blue-skinned woman. “I can…I can try?”

She frowns and goes into the cockpit, flipping some switches as she sits down in the pilot’s chair. Some of them seem to do something, colored lights flickering on the dash, while others don’t do a thing. 

“The one time in history that Quill might have been useful,” she mutters to herself. Peter collapses into the co-pilot’s chair beside her. They’re doomed.

*******

“She’ll find them, Steve.” Natasha folds up next to him on the couch, setting a comforting hand on his shoulder. She does that now—makes herself smaller, sits closer, speaks more softly—but only with him. Everyone else gets her game face, but she lets him see her suffering. Clint abandoning them to strike out on his own is still an open wound, never mind the rest of it.

Steve tries to reciprocate because he knows Natasha doesn’t take opening up to him lightly, but he hasn’t been able to let her in. He just…can’t. If he lets down his walls, he won’t be able to go on. 

So they’ve reached an unspoken understanding. He doesn’t talk about his own pain, but he’s there for her just the same. 

He doesn’t know a single person who hasn’t lost someone, but for them, it’s different. They knew it was coming. They were the ones who were supposed to stop it. It wasn’t some sudden, inexplicable tragedy. They know the culprit, they know the weapon, and they are the only ones left to hold accountable. 

He and Natasha are the leaders now by default, their previous crimes set aside out of necessity so they can focus on the new problems, of which there are many. They received an official pardon, slapdash and haphazard in the days immediately following the catastrophe, and Steve half-expects that when everything settles, months or even years from now, they might still be called to account for the Sokovia Accords. But no one has the time or care for such things now. 

Steve doesn’t know what the new normal will look like, or if they’ll ever find it. 

Carol Danvers appearing out of nowhere the day before had given them not only their latest shock but also a spark of hope. Their very own deus ex machina, arriving late but better than not at all. 

When Bruce had first called Steve to tell him about Thanos—god, that hadn’t even been three weeks ago, how the hell had this all happened so fast?—Bruce had said that Tony, Peter, and a sorcerer called Stephen Strange were aboard one of Thanos’ ships, presumably on course to Titan. As far as anyone on Earth knows they could still be there. It’s just as likely they are not, but watching Carol jet off to outer space like she had the matter easily in hand certainly felt promising. 

“If Tony is alive…” Steve dares to start, but then stops himself. If Tony is alive, maybe they can find a way out of this mess. A way to undo it. Tony’s the only one smart enough to figure it out. 

“If Tony is alive, he’s going to tease the shit out of you for that beard.” Natasha actually smiles, poking his face with a finger. She’s getting her hopes up despite herself. He fights the urge to try and temper it, knowing Natasha is more realistic than most, so she must need this right now. “What, you know it’s true.” 

“Maybe I should shave before he gets back then,” Steve valiantly meets her optimism with his own. “Look like the Steve he knows.” 

He’s doing just that when the whole of the Avengers Compound rumbles underneath his feet, and the security system warns of an unidentified aircraft entering their air space. 

His heart is in his throat as he stands out on the lawn with Natasha and Bruce, watching as Carol, flaming and beautiful, sets a dark, immobilized spacecraft carefully on the ground. She lands gracefully, her shine subsiding, and approaches Natasha. 

She treats Nat like she’s obviously the one in charge and Steve likes her all the more for it. 

“There are two on board. The boy’s in rough shape.” 

_Peter._

He turns to Bruce. 

“Prepare the med bay and call his aunt. Get her up here as soon as possible.” 

The ramp lowers too slowly and Steve races toward the ship, still hoping against hope that the second person on board is Tony. His step falters when he sees an unknown woman with blue skin staggering down the ramp, supporting Peter Parker on her shoulder. 

Natasha sets her hand on his arm and they share a long, significant look. Steve swallows hard, pushing down the new surge of grief, and does what he does best: soldiers on. 

“It’s okay. We’re gonna figure it out. We’ll get him back somehow.” Steve assures Natasha, and then rushes toward Peter at the bottom of the ramp, taking him from the stranger. “Parker.”

“Cap?” He asks, blearily. Steve just picks him up; he’s nothing more than skin and bones, so painfully light in his arms. “I’m sorry. Mr. Stark, he…I _tried_.” 

“Shh, Peter, it’s not your fault. Just stay with me, here. We’re gonna get you help.” 

Peter slumps his head on Steve’s shoulder and passes out.

*******

Peter lifts his head as the door to his recovery room opens; May stops reading aloud and closes the book as she also turns to see who has joined them.

“Captain, hello,” she greets Steve, getting up from the armchair that she has pulled up alongside Peter’s hospital bed. She runs her hand through her long brown hair and straightens her loose cardigan on her slim shoulders. Steve’s nearly twenty years her junior, but he’s still Captain America, and even his aunt isn’t immune. 

He’s not in uniform though, just a pair of jeans and a pale blue button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. But the shirt is crisply pressed, his face freshly shaved, his blonde hair immaculately trimmed and combed; he seems impossibly put together, considering the circumstances. 

“Mrs. Parker, Peter,” he greets them formally. 

“You can just call me May,” she replies, still holding her finger in between the book’s pages to mark their place even as she clutches it to her chest. “I think all things considered we can all just, y’know, jump right into acting like we’re friends. Half the world’s gone, now’s not the time to be choosy.” 

“_May_,” Peter hisses at her, and May laughs. 

“I’m sorry, I haven’t slept in awhile. I may or may not be a little loopy.” She makes a so-so gesture at Cap, shrugging. 

“There seems to be a bit of that going around,” Steve replies, giving himself away despite all appearances to the contrary. “I don’t mean to intrude, I just wanted to stop by and check in, see how Peter is doing.” 

“He’s doing better. Fine, even.” May smiles at Steve, blindly reaching down to pat Peter on the leg twice. 

Peter feels like a kid again, the “adults” talking about him like he isn’t even there. 

“Can I get you anything, Peter?” Steve turns to him. “I know Bruce brought you a phone and computer so you could talk to your friends. But I can get you whatever else you need. More books, maybe?” He gestures toward the old, battered _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ that May carted with her from Queens. It’s always been one of Peter’s favorites and that particular copy had been Uncle Ben’s. 

“There is something I wanted to talk to you about.” Peter sits up a little more against his pillows, the small action no longer exhausting him like it had only a few days before. Steve looks at him expectantly. Peter glances at May, not wanting to do this in front of her. “Could you maybe, um, give us a minute, Aunt May?” 

“Oh, _oh_. Is this like a Spider-Man & Captain America thing?” She points between the two of them and then brings her finger to her lips in a shushing motion. “I can—yeah, I’m gonna go out in the hallway.” She hurries to the door, tiptoeing overexaggeratedly. “But I’ll be right out here if you need me.” Peter blushes at May’s motherly words, then turns even redder as she shoots a warning look at Steve. “And remember, he’s still recovering, so Spider-Man is limited to talk and only talk for at least another two weeks.” 

Steve waits until she has closed the door before turning back to Peter, a small smile playing at his lips. 

“You’re lucky to have her.” A few weeks ago that would have been merely a nice sentiment, but now those five words are heavy and loaded. In the lonely hours and hours he has spent in medical since his return, he has scoured the Internet for news of who survived and who is gone. But Bruce had reluctantly filled him in on the particulars of those close to home. He knows that of all of Steve’s crew, only Natasha remains; Bucky, Sam, Wanda, T’Challa, Scott…all gone, in the blink of an eye. Even Clint, who _should_ be here, is in the wind. 

The gaping hole left in Peter’s life by Mr. Stark’s disappearance must seem like nothing compared to what Steve has lost. 

And to pretend that Steve hadn’t lost Tony too…

The pair may not have spoken in two years, but Peter knows that pained look that Mr. Stark would get whenever someone mentioned Captain America, or worse, Steve, by name. The way he’d quickly turn over any newspaper with a headline announcing a sighting of Cap and his team, or how every once in awhile he’d take out that ancient flip phone from his pocket and flick it open and closed like a nervous habit.

“I, uh…I wanted to talk to you about something. About Titan.” 

No one has been pressing him too much for details; he figures Nebula filled them in while he was in and out of consciousness for those first few days after their rescue. 

“Did you remember something?” Steve comes closer to the bed. “Something Thanos said or did?”

“Oh…no.” Peter hadn’t realized his statement had the potential to get Steve’s hopes up, but now that seems obvious. 

Steve sinks down into May’s chair, his expression barely shifting. Peter has been confined to this room since his return, so it’s not like he has the best sense of how Steve is behaving, but every time he’s come in to visit it has been much the same: restrained, stoic, but carefully encouraging. It doesn’t seem normal to be so even-keeled at a time like this, but then he doesn’t really know the guy. Before the Snap they’d met a grand total of once and Berlin hadn’t exactly been a get-to-know-you situation. 

“It’s about…about Mr. Stark.” 

“Oh.” Steve frowns for just a moment but then nods, slipping right back into Captain mode. “Go on.” 

“I didn’t really know if I should tell you, if it would help or hurt, but when Mr. Stark, when he, uh, _went_,” Peter winces, always unable to find the right words when he talks about this. There never seems to be a right way to convey what happened, someone disintegrating while you stood there, helpless to stop it. Tears are stinging his eyes and he looks away from Steve, not wanting the man to see him cry. 

“It’s okay, Peter,” Steve reaches out and takes his hand, warm and reassuring. “I know this is upsetting. You don’t have to talk about this right now if you don’t want to.”

On the one hand, he appreciates the kindness. But on the other hand, he doesn’t want to be patronized like a child just because Steve is able to keep his emotions in check and he can’t.

“I want to,” Peter replies, a bit too quickly, eyes snapping up to Steve’s face, then dropping back down. “I need to. I just…” He pulls his hand from Steve’s and his fingers anxiously tug at the pilling fabric of the thin hospital blanket. “Mr. Stark tried to say something as he was…”

He can hear Steve swallow hard and shift in his seat. 

“A message for Pepper?” Steve asks. "I know she's been buried underneath work at Stark Industries, but I can call her if you need to talk to her." Maybe he’s trying to make it easier by guessing but it really doesn’t help. 

“No. For you.” Peter dares to look at him again. Steve blinks a few times, like he’s trying to process, and then folds his hands in front of him. He shifts again in the chair, and then leans forward on his elbows, folded hands dropping between his knees. 

“What did he…what did he say?” The slight stumble is the only real evidence that Peter has set him off balance. 

“He didn’t get it out. He started to say ‘Tell Steve’ and then it was too late. But I thought…I thought you should know. You know. That his last thought was of you.” 

Steve sits back up right, forcing out a short laugh.

“Knowing Tony, he could’ve been telling me to go fuck myself just as easily as anything else.” 

Peter chuckles softly, surprised at Steve’s vulgarity. He acknowledges to himself that that does make a certain kind of sense, when you think about Tony Stark. 

“That wasn’t it, though,” Peter corrects. “I don’t know what it was but it wasn’t that. I don’t think it was gonna be an _I told you so_.”

“Guess we’ll never know.” Steve says, clapping Peter on the knee as he stands up. He sniffs once and rubs a finger over his eye, like a man who should be crying but isn’t about to. He heads toward the door before seeming to catch himself, turning back to Peter with a staid smile plastered on his face. “But who knows, maybe Tony will remember what it was and tell me when we get everyone back.” 

It’s never been more clear than in that moment that Steve’s optimistic efforts are just that: _effort_. 

It has to be tiring to be _on_ all the time. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save him.” Peter says honestly, and Steve’s face, oh, it actually crumbles at that. 

“Peter, that’s not…don’t you apologize for that. Nothing that happened was your fault. _Nothing_.” 

“Still.” 

“We all lost Tony.” Steve states, his voice dipping down into that authoritative Captain voice he’d heard so many times on those old school videos. “We all lost together. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.” 

Peter learns then what it looks like when Captain America lies, because when he says _It wasn’t anyone’s fault_, what he really means is _It was no one’s fault but mine._

*******

Steve stands at the plate glass door in the common room, looking out at the strange, small courtyard. Quietly, Natasha comes up beside him, joining him in his staring.

“I have no idea what Tony was thinking with this remodel.” He finally says after a few minutes pass and it’s clear she’s not going to break the silence.

“I know, what’s with the dinky grill,” Natasha agrees flatly, nodding her head toward the small black barbecue that seems more suited for a college kids’ porch than a high-tech facility housing a small army of superheroes. “Vision must have asked for it, he always was trying to learn how to cook.” 

Just like that, something breaks within him. 

He turns to Natasha helplessly, his arms around her shoulders and his face buried against her neck. His entire body wracks with sobs as she staggers back just one step, regaining her footing quickly and holding him up even as his knees start to give. 

Today had been too much, a push too far. Finding Thanos only to discover the stones destroyed…

It’s more than they could take.

It’s more than anyone could take. 

The rest of the world won’t know how close they came to undoing it all. One brief brilliant moment as they jetted off to outer space, to the far reaches of the galaxy, knowing exactly when and where to find the monster who did this and how to take away his tool of destruction, to make things _right_.

Thor had chopped Thanos’ head off in a fit of fury and Steve stood there, dumbly, and watched it roll across the ground at their feet. Such a simple end, and all too late. Thanos had been half-dead already, his body nearly burnt to a crisp from using the stones yet again.

Even if they had gotten the stones back, would anyone have had the power to use them? 

Steve would have tried, even if it had killed him. 

Maybe especially if it had killed him. 

_We don’t trade lives._ He told Vision once, _before_, and someone, maybe Rhodey, pointed out that Steve had traded his own life that fateful day over seventy years ago. 

He’d trade his life again for all of theirs in a heartbeat. But he can’t even do that. 

“Natasha, I can’t…” He doesn’t know what. He clings to her as she slowly lowers them both to the ground, cradling him against her shoulder. She’s crying too, he realizes, feeling her shaking against him even as she holds him tight. She presses a kiss to his temple, her tears mingling with his as they stream down her cheeks. 

Steve doesn’t know how long they stay like that, collapsed in a tangled heap on the floor, but Natasha, unsurprisingly, regains control of herself first. She rocks him gently, rubbing his shoulders, as he tries to calm down, but it’s all gotten away from him somehow. 

It’s like an asthma attack, his breath hard to catch and the panic only building and building the longer it goes on. 

“Shhhh, it’s okay, Steve. I got you.” Natasha murmurs against his ear, running her hand soothingly through his hair. God, he hates that she has to do this, to prop him up as he weakly falls apart. This isn’t her duty. She deserves more than sitting on the hardwood floor in this stupid, sterile facility; she deserves more than being left with _him_ as a poor excuse for a friend. 

“Oh god, sorry.” 

Steve snaps away from Natasha like she was lit on fire; she disengages quickly as he shuffles back. 

“Peter.” Steve manages to get out, glancing at the teen frozen in the doorway to the common room like a deer in headlights. Wide-eyed, Peter stumbles for words, taken aback at the sorry sight in front of him. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt, I was just—“ He gestures toward the small kitchen, but then thumbs back over his shoulder to the hallway. “I’ll go.” 

Peter pivots back, nearly crashing into the doorframe. He laughs awkwardly, pats the wooden molding twice, and then ducks out of sight. 

“Shit,” Steve mutters to himself, wiping his face. He looks out the glass doors toward the patio, trying to get a grip. The sun is shining, filtering through the large tree in the courtyard and dappling the concrete and grass with shimmering light. Any other day it would be pretty, but today it just seems like further proof that the universe is entirely indifferent to their suffering. 

“At least he’s up and around,” Natasha observes with a wry optimism, chuckling. She quirks an eyebrow at him as he tilts his head back toward her. 

“I should go talk to him,” Steve sighs, his voice low. “He didn’t need to see that.” He huffs a deep breath and pushes himself up off the floor. He offers Natasha a hand up. She takes it, letting him practically lift her up onto her feet with one tug. 

“Heaven forbid he realize you’re only human." 

Steve frowns, shaking his head. He wipes his face again, and then straightens his spine, squares his shoulders. He turns to look at her as the roiling tumult inside of him finally simmers back down to the constant, low boil that he’s used to. He can almost feel the lid click back into place. 

“I’m not, though, am I.” He says, his words again finding that firm, final edge that he needs. “I’m supposed to be better than this.” 

“Better than what, Steve.” Natasha challenges, crossing her arms. For a brief moment he thinks of Peggy in that bombed out bar, telling him to stop blaming himself and honor Bucky’s sacrifice. 

He’d tried, but Lord knows he wasn’t good enough. Even with all he has been given, he’s never going to be good enough. He’s never going to save Bucky. The universe had laughed in his face every time he tried. 

He’s never going to really save anyone. 

“Better than I am.” Steve mumbles, more to himself than to Natasha, and walks out to go find Peter.

*******

Peter haphazardly throws the last of his clothes into his suitcase. Tucking in the sleeves of a shirt that hadn’t quite made it all the way in, he then hits the lid closed and snaps the latches shut. He trails a finger over the _BFP_ engraved on the side.

It’s been a month since Captain Marvel had rescued him and Nebula from outer space--and _that’s_ still a sentence that he can’t believe applies to his life. Two weeks practically chained to that hospital bed, another two getting back on his feet, and now it’s time to get out of this damn compound and back to what’s left of his normal life. 

Though he has FaceTimed with Ned and MJ, and May has been coming up every weekend since she had to go back to work—life goes on, capitalism demands it—nothing about this post-Snap world feels quite real yet. He’s watched the news, read all the articles and think pieces online, but stowed away in the Avengers’ complex in the middle of nowhere New York, it’s easy to pretend that the whole thing was a bad dream. 

That he’ll go back to Queens tomorrow and Mr. Stark’s gonna call him on his cell, ask him what the hell is taking him so long to get back into the swing of things. 

But that’s not going to happen. 

“Hey, Peter.” Steve appears in the doorway, jarring Peter from his thoughts. “You all set?”

“Sure, yeah.” Peter nods, forcing a smile. Steve returns it with one of those half-hearted ones of his own, the one that makes him look tired and sad instead of happy. 

After walking in on Steve and Natasha that day, seeing Steve sobbing in her arms, Peter’s learned to look more closely at the façade of Captain America. Now that he knows there are cracks to be found, he can see them. 

He gets that Steve doesn’t want anyone to notice, but Peter actually finds it to be a comfort. 

Steve looks around Peter’s temporary room now and one of those cracks splinter right across his face. 

“What’s wrong?” Peter asks, and Steve’s gaze snaps toward him, surprised by the question. 

“Nothing,” he replies quickly, brow furrowing. 

Peter nods, not pressing the issue. He picks up the couple of books from the nightstand; _Hitchhiker’s Guide_ is his, but Ned had sent up _The Lord of the Rings_ trilogy when it was clear he’d be staying with the Avengers to recuperate. He shoves the Douglas Adams into his backpack along with his math textbook and sets the thick tome on the bed, needing to find another place to fit it in with the rest of his things. How had he collected so much stuff in such a short period of time? 

Steve crosses gingerly into the room, gesturing toward the book. 

“_The Hobbit_ was one of my favorites back…well, back when. I actually haven’t read this, it came out well after I was gone.” He picks it up, feeling the heavy weight of it in his hand. 

“That has got to be so weird,” Peter shakes his head, and then bites his lip, wondering if that was rude. “I mean, going in the ice and all and waking up like, decades later. You missed so much.” God, that was even more stupid to say. Like Steve isn’t already fully aware of how shitty his circumstances were, even before the Snap. 

“Yeah…I did.” Steve opens up the book, flips through the pages. It’s an illustrated edition, and he pauses to run his fingertip over one of the black and white etchings. 

“Kinda puts my problems into perspective,” Peter adds, rocking back and forth on his heels as he lets out a long breath. 

“Everyone has their own fair share of problems, Peter,” Steve closes the book and looks at him with clear, kind eyes. “Whatever happens to someone else doesn’t make your pain any less valid.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Peter shrugs, not about to argue the point, especially not when Steve is so earnest. “You would have made a good social worker,” he half-kids, Steve’s calm, measured approach reminding him of the myriad well-intentioned people who had wandered in and out of his life after his parents’ deaths. Aunt May had made him see a therapist after Ben’s. It had helped, a little. Becoming Spider-Man had helped a lot more. 

Steve snorts a little at his suggestion. 

“Maybe.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes, and again he casts his gaze about the room like he’s thinking about something else entirely. He shuts the book, tapping the spine with his finger. 

Peter doesn’t speak, because it seems like Steve’s on the verge of saying something else. 

“This room used to be Wanda’s.” He gestures around vaguely. “She had masks and crosses up all over.” 

The room is non-descript now, as plain and boring as a hotel room. Pale blue walls, berber carpet, gray bedspread, modular furniture. 

“Tony must have put it all in storage.” It’s the first time in awhile that Steve has mentioned Mr. Stark, and definitely the first since his return from the failed mission to Thanos’ sanctuary. 

Steve shakes himself from his thoughts and extends his hand toward Peter, offering him back his book. 

“You should keep it.” Peter suggests. “It’s better than _The Hobbit_.”

“Yeah?” Steve seems surprised again, still holding the book out for him. “You sure? I don’t want to—“

“Yeah, I’m sure. You read it, and then when you’re done we can all get together and watch the movies. Avengers movie night.” 

Another crack, just like that. Steve hides it better this time, only faltering for a split second before the smile on his face grows bigger. He brings the book back, cradling it against his hip. 

“Okay, sure. That sounds great.” He just looks at Peter for a moment, and Peter isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say next. “Okay. Well. Happy is waiting to drive you back into the city, so…” He picks up Peter’s suitcase from the bed.

“I can get that.” Peter reaches for it, but Steve shakes his head, merely gesturing for Peter to come on along as he heads into the hallway.

“No, I’ll walk you out.” Steve pats him on the shoulder good-naturedly as Peter joins him, stumbling as he tries to catch up and sling his backpack over his shoulders at the same time. “This place is a bit of a maze, really. Wouldn’t want you to get lost, right?”

*******

“Should we be here?” Steve looks up at the apartment building, squinting as the setting sun slants perfectly down the length of the avenue. His breath turns to fog in the frosty December air. Peter’s building is prewar—which he has come to learn in realty terms means pre-_his_ war—with light Art Deco details, from the chrome canopy and detailing around the door to the intricate geometric patterning above the entrance to the alternating brick patterns climbing up its six stories. The building feels familiar, not at all like the shimmering glass co-ops taking over Brooklyn these days.

Natasha comes to a stop beside him, pulling down her dark red knit scarf from around her face. Her cheeks are rosy from their short but brisk walk from the 46 St-Bliss St subway station. The trains are all finally back up and running across all five boroughs now, tracks cleared of debris from the many Snap-related accidents, but folks in cities across the world have been wary of going back into dark tunnels after so many had been killed in collisions or trapped in train cars as operators simply disappeared. 

Steve’s been spending more time in the city lately, trying to let the public see him do day-to-day, normal tasks to re-instill confidence in all of those things everyone used to take for granted. Taking the 7 out to Sunnyside is one of those things. 

Even if he’s not entirely sure he made the right call to come out in the first place. 

“May invited us for Thanksgiving, and we said no. It feels like the least we can do,” Natasha sighs, and goes into the vestibule, pressing the small black buzzer for the Parkers’ apartment. The inner door buzzes loudly and unlocks with a loud clack. 

Steve hefts up the bag of gifts and food that they had brought with them and follows Natasha down the hall to the elevator. He might have overdone it, but he wasn’t sure how to prepare. 

The elevator doors open on the Parkers’ floor and Steve is surprised to find it bustling, most of the doors along the hallway flung open and people mingling from apartment to apartment. The walls are decked with pine garland and red ribbons, and he can smell mulled cider wafting from somewhere. 

Both he and Natasha freeze, and he’s positive she feels as overwhelmed as he does. 

“Okay?” He murmurs and she nods, her smile tight. He knows this is harder for her than for him; before their time on the run, for years she had spent her holidays as Aunt Nat with Clint and his family, and now Laura and the kids are gone, and Clint, in his own pain, had abandoned her completely. 

May enters the hall, carrying a pumpkin pie between two bright red potholders, and it’s only an instant before she spots them still standing like idiots in front of the elevator. 

“You came!” She grins widely, and gestures awkwardly with her full hands for them to come down toward her. “We’re in 5G, go right on in, I just gotta-“ She jerks her head to the apartment across the hall. “Be right back.” 

Sliding past a twenty-something couple who are leaning against the wall, talking closely over two glasses of red wine, and stepping over three young kids bashing toy cars together on the floor, Steve and Natasha find May and Peter’s small apartment humming with even more life. The short kitchen counter is brimming with food, as is the coffee table. The couch and two armchairs in the living room are full up, and standing room is at a premium. One of the living room windows is open and some people have spilled out onto the fire escape. No one seems to notice as they slip in.

“Jesus, is the whole building here?” Natasha mutters, but then she suddenly switches gears, plastering on a sweet smile and a happy disposition. Steve raises an eyebrow at her. “Tonight’s a fake it ‘til you make it kinda night, Rogers. Get with the program.” She says through gritted teeth, taking one of the bags from him and winding through the crowd to the kitchen to unpack. 

“Cap!” Peter’s voice cuts through the clamor, bright and slightly anxious. He turns to find Peter and a shorter kid fighting their way toward him. Peter nearly falls over as he squeezes past a woman in a garishly colored, blinking Rudolph sweater. Peter’s got on quite the holiday get-up himself, his sweater adorned with a glittery snowflake pattern, and a fluffy Santa hat on his head. Wearing a solid green knit sweater and dark slacks underneath his heavy coat, Steve feels even more staid than usual. 

“I didn’t know you were coming.” Peter starts, breathless, grabbing the red hat off his head and trying to smooth down his rumpled hair. “Did…did Aunt May invite you?”

“Yes, was that not—“

“No, of course. Glad you could make it.”

Peter wavers, like he’s not sure what the proper greeting is, so Steve helps out and switches his remaining bag to the other hand so he can hold out his right for a firm shake hello. Peter’s friend shakes too, and then forgets to let go.

“Dude, you’re Captain America. Peter, Captain America is in your apartment.” 

“You must be Ned,” Steve divines, clapping his other hand over Ned’s, giving him one more shake and then managing to extricate himself from his overeager grasp. 

“I am. That’s me. You are very muscular, sir.” Ned stares at him, open-mouthed, and Peter coughs beside him, trying to intervene. 

“Um, thank you.” Steve isn’t quite sure what to say. Peter crosses his arms over his chest, practically radiating nervous energy as he bounces slightly beside his friend. 

“Ned, could you maybe see if Aunt May needs any help? I hear a timer going off.” 

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Trust me.” He nudges Ned toward the kitchen, clearly unaware that Natasha is over there, putting out the bottles of wine she and Steve brought as hostess gifts. 

“I’m MJ.” A tall, slim girl with a sardonic smile slips immediately into Ned’s place. Her handshake is short and confident. Her eyes are alight, quick and clever. “How do you know Peter, _Captain America_?” 

“Stark Internship!” Peter quickly interjects. “We, uh, we worked together on that project, you know the one I was tied up on for that little bit after the Snap.” 

Peter looks at him guiltily, eyes wide. Steve nods emphatically, catching on not a moment too soon that MJ doesn’t know about Peter’s alter ego. That seems like something someone should have considered before he and Nat showed up tonight. 

“Oh, you mean the one that made you start your very important senior year a month late?” MJ, Steve notes, is not a fan of that fact. 

“Yes, Peter was a great help,” Steve chimes in, clapping his hand to Peter’s shoulder, perhaps a bit too hard from the way Peter's knees give out a little and he pitches forward slightly. “It was really all hands on deck, we were lucky to have him.”

“So all the Avengers are just, what, working with Stark Industries, then?” MJ inquires, eyes narrowing. She points over her shoulder. “I mean, Black Widow is in your kitchen putting out a bread and cheese plate right now, Peter.”

Peter actually squeaks. 

“I brought gifts,” Steve re-directs, setting his bag on the floor and bending down to pull out the wrapped box that, luckily, is near the top. “For you, MJ.” 

She takes the small package from him with a pleased, slightly confused smile. 

“For…me?”

“Well Peter talks about you so often—“ Peter’s hand clutches his elbow sharply, fingers digging in enough to hurt. Steve swallows his wince. “I wanted to make sure to have gifts for anyone who might be here tonight. I…” He looks around the crowded apartment, asea in an ocean of faces he does not recognize in the slightest. “I didn’t realize it was going to be quite the shindig, or I would’ve done something else.”

“We kinda opened it up to the whole building,” Peter explains, guiding Steve away from MJ and not being all that subtle about it. “There are a lot of people who don’t have anyone to spend the holidays with, especially now since..."

"Since a big purple dude came from outer space and killed half the people on Earth?" MJ supplies bluntly.

"Yeah," Peter cringes. "So it’s turned into a block party, but, like, inside. And for Christmas.” 

“That’s actually really nice, Peter.” 

“Don't the Avengers have more important places to be for the holidays? Like, weren’t you invited to the White House?” MJ is still right behind them.

“Cap, you want to see my room?” Peter spits out hastily, and MJ snorts. 

“Parker, you did not just ask Captain America to see your bedroom.” Peter stops and looks back at her, his face draining of color. She looks Steve dead in the eye. “I hope you like LEGOs.” 

“Oh my god.” Peter grabs Steve by the forearm and drags him down the hall. Steve is laughing hard, despite himself, as Peter slams the door behind them. 

“She’s a real spitfire,” he says, and finally, now that he has a moment, unwraps his scarf and undoes his black pea coat. Between the radiator heat and the swarm of people, the apartment is quite warm and he’s about to start sweating through his button-down and sweater. “I can see why you like her.”

“I don’t like her.” Peter’s voice cracks. Steve doesn’t argue, not about to tease him for his awkwardness. Who’s he to judge—when he was 17, he couldn’t even get a girl to look at him, much less talk to him. 

“You should probably tell her you’re Spider-Man though, that is, if she hasn’t figured it out already.” Steve looks around the small bedroom; it seems like Peter, colorful and comfortable and a bit messy. 

“Well if May keeps inviting superheroes to holiday parties, I wouldn’t blame her.” Peter takes his scarf and coat and dumps them onto the bottom bunk of his bed. Steve’s about to apologize and offer to head out, but there is a short, perfunctory knock on the door and Natasha slips inside. 

“Pete, does Ned have asthma?” 

“Um…no?”

She nods once but offers no further explanation.

“Why?” 

“He’s fine now. He maybe just forgot how to breathe for a second.” She waves off Peter’s concern. 

“Petey?” The door opens again, May popping in. 

“Oh my god.” Peter brings his hands up to his face, fingers clutching at his hair. 

“Sorry to interrupt the Avengers club house, but I need you to go get more ice.” 

“May…!” Pete whines, urging her back out the door. “Can you…? I will, I’ll go get some, just give me one second. One second, be right there.” 

He shuts the door and turns back around, heaving a huge breath of exasperation. 

“Sorry.”

“I like the LEGOs. Is that the Death Star?” Natasha is already sitting at Peter’s desk, idly flipping through his school papers. With a knowing smile, she points to the gray sphere of plastic bricks sitting on the floor in the corner. It’s the first time Steve has seen that side of her old self really come through in months, that part of her that likes to tease and poke and push all the right buttons, just because she can. It’s nice, and it already makes the evening worth it. 

“Ned and I built it…a very long time ago.” Peter hurries to his desk and shuffles the papers away from Natasha, but not before she spots something interesting. 

“MIT?” She stops him, covering his hand with hers gently. She slips one of the pages from his grasp. “You got into MIT?” 

“It was early admission. I applied…before.” They all take a beat, Tony a ghost in the room lingering between them. 

“That’s really great, Peter,” Steve manages, reaching out to give him a congratulatory half-hug that’s well-meaning but awkward as hell. 

“It’s not like the competition was the usual; they need the numbers.” He shrugs away as politely as he can. “I heard they lost a quarter of the sophomore class.” 

“You would’ve gotten in either way,” Steve assures him, having no doubts about that. “Are you going to go?” 

“Well it was that or Caltech, and since most of the top professors at Cal disappeared, I’d say the decision was made for me.”

“Tony would be proud.” 

Peter’s eyes flicker toward the framed photo of him and Tony sitting on his desk, Tony smiling with his arm thrown around him, the fake Stark Internship award between them. The award is upside down, and isn’t that irreverence so perfectly Tony?

“He would be.” Natasha agrees, the smile gone from her voice now, and she shares a meaningful, reassuring look with Peter. He nods and grabs his own jacket from the back of the desk chair, throwing it on and digging his house keys out of the pocket. 

“Thank you. Thanks. Now, I…apparently need to go get ice.” 

“I’ll come with,” Steve offers, re-claiming his own coat. Peter opens his mouth to protest but Steve cuts him off. “I’ll carry.” 

“Oh fine, leave me here.” Natasha says without a hint of anger. She sighs, idly inspecting her maroon nail polish as Steve ushers Peter toward the door. “It’s no problem. I’ll just talk to MJ.”

“What? No.” 

“She’s kidding.” Steve shoves Peter out into the hallway. “You are kidding, right?” He checks with her before shutting the door, but she only shrugs.

*******

Peter can’t help but watch Steve as they sidle down the narrow aisles. Even in civilian clothes, and even in the sallow, flickering lights of the bodega, he looks every inch the recognizable superhero, and Peter’s waiting for Mr. Delmar to say something with the way he’s eyeing them both.

He leads Steve toward the back where the 10 lb. bags of ice are stored in their own separate freezer, right by the cooler with the six packs of beer. 

“Three, you think?” Steve asks, picking up two with one hand like they’re bags of potato chips, half full of air. Peter grabs the third before Steve can. 

“I got it, carry them like a normal person,” he hisses, without thinking that it’s _Captain America_ he’s sniping at, but Steve actually has the nerve to chuckle, amused. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles back with fake chagrin, quickly moving one bag to each hand and dropping them down low like they’re just a little difficult to carry. 

“Feliz Navidad, Mr. Delmar,” Peter smiles at the lovingly grumpy man behind the counter as he slides his bag of ice onto the counter. 

“You got three?” He holds up three fingers, signaling to include Steve standing slightly behind. 

“Yep. Hey, we’re having a party for the holidays if you want to come after you close up.”

“Close up? I never close, kid! Heck, my store gets blown up, I was only closed for two weeks. You think I’m gonna shut down for Christmas?” 

“Wouldn’t want to miss out on that big $6.24,” Peter teases as he forks over $7 for the ice. 

“Smart ass, I should charge you extra.” 

“Keep the change!” Peter scratches Murph on the head as he heads out the door, and is surprised to see Steve pause to do the same. “I figured you for a dog person,” he comments as they hit the sidewalk. 

“And that means I have to hate cats?” Steve retorts. “I didn’t realize this was a mutually exclusive thing.” 

“Oh, it is, you must choose a side.” Peter breathes in the sharp night air as they cross back toward his apartment building. Although Queens Boulevard, one block over, is probably still busy, 43rd Avenue is mostly empty. Snow is beginning to fall gently. It’s pretty against the garlands of white Christmas lights that are strung up overhead across the width of the street. 

“Kinda beautiful, huh,” Steve comments, pausing in the intersection for a moment to take it all in. “I miss the city.”

Peter never really forgets that Steve is from Brooklyn, but sometimes it catches him off guard when he has to stop and remind himself that Steve is a person who had a life before the shield. 

He jumps over a puddle of slush onto the curb and then spins to look back at Steve. 

“I should show you my spot, the view is great.” 

“You have a spot?” 

“Yeah. Come on,” Peter detours from his building’s entrance and gestures for Steve to follow him down the alley between his building and the one to its left. He leaves his bag of ice propped against the brick wall and then jumps up onto the second floor fire escape, knowing Steve can and will follow. 

“This your idea of keeping a low profile?” Steve tosses up after him, the metal clanging as he climbs. 

“Eh, no one’s looking!” 

Steve can’t quite jump and swing with Peter’s ease, but still he’s damn fast, making it up to the roof just a moment after Peter’s feet return to solid ground. 

Most of the buildings in Sunnyside are only six stories or less, so from his roof Peter can see surprisingly far in every direction. To the north he can see the row homes of the garden district, and to the south the bright lights of the boulevard and the curving, metal track of the elevated train. A 7 toward Flushing rattles by. Manhattan shines to the west, the view only marred by the Citi Building rising up in Long Island City, and planes fly in overhead on their way in and out of nearby LaGuardia or, further to their east, JFK. 

Peter plops down on the edge of the roof, feet dangling freely off the side. Steve joins him, and when Peter turns his head to look at him, the corners of Steve’s mouth curve upward in a faint but honest smile. 

“It’s real peaceful up here.” 

“I come here to think. We’re actually not allowed, the roof door is locked, but…” 

“Like that’ll stop you.” Steve finishes. “Bucky and I used to do this, at my ma’s place in Red Hook anyway. Later we used the fire escape at our place in the Heights. Summer nights we’d even sleep out there. If we were lucky we could see the stars.” 

Peter glances up toward the sky, but there are no stars tonight, snow clouds obscuring what little there could be to see, what with the city lights and all. He blinks away snowflakes from his eyelashes, and, on a whim, childishly opens his mouth to collect them on his tongue.

Steve holds out his hand, letting them melt in his upturned palm instead. 

“This neighborhood used to be Irish, back in the day,” he comments after a moment, turning his attention from the sky to the streets below.

“Oh yeah? Well, I suppose we still got some Irish bars around here. And we do have a St. Pat’s For All parade—it’s meant to be inclusive, y’know, ‘cause sometimes Catholic things tend to be…” He trails off, remembering a little too late that Captain America is supposedly a God-fearing man, or so the stories go. 

“Bigoted? Narrow-minded?” Steve supplies readily.

“Sorry, I know you’re…”

“Eh, maybe I was religious, once upon a time. That’s how I was raised, anyway. Not so much anymore. Even before I went in the ice, I…I had a feeling all of that wasn’t quite for me.” 

“Really? Huh.” 

“I’ve met a few gods now, and apart from Thor, they aren’t so great.” Steve brushes his hands together like he’s washing his hands of all of it. 

“I have yet to meet Thor,” Peter points out. “Does he have any plans to come around? I haven’t seen Bruce much either, not since I left the Compound.”

“Thor is in New Asgard…he’s…” Steve stops, clearly unsure what to say, or how much. “He’s not doing so swell but he’s hanging in there. I keep inviting him to…but, well…” Steve sighs. “Bruce is holed up in one of Stark’s labs, he’s working on his Hulk problem.” 

“Just you and Natasha then.”

“Rhodey comes by every now and again. Nebula and Rocket check in, so does Carol. We’re all on each other’s radars.” 

“I miss Mr. Stark.” Steve doesn’t reply, just swallows hard. His eyes tick toward the Manhattan skyline, though, toward Stark Tower. “You must miss Bucky. And Sam. I mean, they seemed cool. I know you guys were close. I mean, I saw your exhibit in Washington, so I…well.” 

Steve sighs and draws one of his legs in close, arms wrapping around his knee.

“Yeah, I do miss them. I miss a lot of people. Tony included.” He mentions pointedly. He looks at Peter, then, his eyes startlingly blue even in the dim light. “But I think if Tony were here, he’d want you to be happy, Pete. He’d want you to move on, live your life. You know, build your LEGOs with Ned, maybe ask MJ out.”

He leans forward a little and nudges his knee against Peter’s. Peter ducks his head, trying to hide his blush. 

“I do not still play with LEGOs.”

“Okay,” Steve replies in a tone that says he doesn’t believe that for an instant. 

“And MJ’s going to Sarah Lawrence next fall. I’ll be in Boston.” 

“Worry about that then. And it’s not like you won’t be back in the city all the time, and Sarah Lawrence is just up near Yonkers, right?” 

“It doesn’t really matter, ’cause she doesn’t like me back.” 

“I know I’m not the world’s foremost authority on romance, but even I can see that MJ likes you. You’d have to be blind not to see that, Peter.” 

“And now Captain America is giving me advice on my love life.”

“Sorry,” Steve puts his hands up sheepishly. “I’ll stop butting in. Just…don’t wait too long. That’s one thing I actually do know. Learn from my mistakes, kid.”

Steve’s expression shutters. Peter remembers seeing Peggy Carter’s filmed interview at the Smithsonian, and seeing Steve on the news, helping carry her casket from the hearse into the church for the funeral. It’s another reminder of how much Steve had already lost even before Thanos snapped his fingers.

He shifts to stand, brushing snow from his arms and shoulders. 

“We should probably get back down there and grab the ice before it melts,” he suggests, trying to break the tension. Steve looks up at him, eyebrows rising practically to his hairline.

“Melts? It’s freezing out, Peter. Aren’t you a science major?” He stands too, gracefully swinging his legs back around and pushing himself up in one smooth movement. 

“Oh, that’s not what I…” Peter rolls his eyes, exasperated and embarrassed. “I just meant we should go.”

“Really. And you got into MIT?” Steve’s good-natured laugh echoes across the rooftops, and Peter’s secretly glad for his silly comment if it made Captain America happy, even if just for one moment.


	2. 2019

**2019**

“I kissed MJ.” 

Steve pauses mid-sip, then sets down his glass of water. He sits up straighter, like this is a matter that deserves his complete attention. Peter taps his fingers against the formica tabletop, the rhythm of the last song he listened to on his walk over to the diner still thrumming through his mind. 

“Congratulations,” Steve smiles kindly.

"Thanks," Peter replies, a bit relieved. He's not sure what else he expected Steve to say, but he appreciates the calm response. Ned had freaked and May had gotten all misty-eyed and sappy about the whole thing.

“When did this happen?” Steve folds his arms on the table and leans forward.

“New Year’s Eve. So, that’s what, five, no, six days ago? Yep.” Peter nods twice, squinting a little as thinks back, mentally counting the days. He doesn’t know exactly what he wants from Steve here, telling him this, but it feels like something he’d want to know, given their conversation over Christmas. Steve gave him advice, he followed it, and, what, maybe he wants more advice now? Ned hadn’t been helpful at all when he’d told him the news. 

“Six days ago, huh.” Steve runs a hand over his jawline, where a fine stubble is growing back in. He shifts in his seat again like he's slightly uncomfortable, as if he's deciding how much he actually wants to keep discussing this. He eyes Peter critically, apparently deciding to go all in. “So was it only a New Year’s Eve kiss, or something more?”

“That’s the problem! I dunno. Like…it wasn’t just because of New Year's Eve. I mean, technically it was, but I thought I made it clear that y’know, tradition may have prompted me to do it but I’d been thinking about it for awhile and I’d, um, like it to happen again.”

“And what did she say?”

“Okay, yeah, that’s the thing. She said ‘_Thanks._’” Peter drops that on the table between them like a bomb and then leans back in his seat, hands out in confusion. “What does that even mean?”

“I think it means thank you for wanting to kiss her,” he shrugs. As if Peter didn’t know the obvious, surface interpretation. “It’s kind of sweet.”

“No, Steve, what does it _mean._ Like, _Thanks, but no thanks_? Or _Thanks, I agree, let’s do that again_, or…?”

“Did you ask her? What she meant?” Steve inquires, like that would have been so easy. 

“_No_.” Steve puts his hands up in defense as Peter lobs that response in disbelief. 

“Sorry, it was just a thought.” 

“C’mon, I need help here. Ned was no use whatsoever.” 

Steve opens his mouth to reply but is interrupted by their waitress swinging back around their table. She sets a glass of water down in front of Peter and then gets out her order pad, pen at the ready. 

“All righty, boys.” She taps pen to paper. “Have you decided what you’d like for breakfast?” 

Peter hasn’t even looked at the menu, seeing as how he’d blurted out his predicament to poor, unsuspecting Steve about five seconds after he’d sat down. He grabs the two-sided, laminated menu and flips it back and forth quickly, trying to find an answer. 

“I think maybe we need one more minute, thank you,” Steve saves him, giving the waitress what Peter has privately dubbed his _Captain_ smile, the one that reminds everyone he’s a god damn superhero. She smiles back, and her whole body seems to melt a little.

“No problem at all. Can I grab you something besides water while you look things over?” She suggests, addressing the question solely to Steve and then, as if remembering herself, she gets flustered and quickly pivots toward Peter. Peter hesitates a moment—he usually gets hot chocolate, but that seems like such a _kid_ move and he’s out to breakfast with _Captain America_, and—“Just a coffee, please?” 

“Cream and sugar?”

He nods, but only because he doesn’t actually know how he takes it because _he doesn’t drink coffee_. 

“I’ll take a hot chocolate, please.” Steve says and Peter nearly thunks his head down onto the table in frustration. 

“Whipped cream?”

“You bet. Thank you.” He sets his menu down and looks back at Peter as the waitress turns away. “So six days. Have you talked to her at all since then?” 

“I…no. I texted, once, but she didn’t text back, and…” Peter sighs. “I don’t know what to do.” 

“I'm hardly the person to ask, Peter," Steve admits, cheeks flushing pink.

"What do you mean, you're Captain America." Has Steve seen himself?

"That..." Steve chuckles at himself, taking another drink of water. "I'm sure you know what I used to look like, before. And Captain America...that doesn't mean anything." Peter's sure if they called the waitress back over right now, she'd beg to differ. "I’ve kissed precisely three women in my entire lifetime, and one kiss is precisely as far as any of those relationships went. And one wasn’t even a real kiss, it was only a cover.”

Peter takes a beat. It doesn't really compute, like someone just told him 1+1=24.

“You must be a terrible kisser.” He jokes and Steve laughs gamely, nodding. 

“I really must be.” 

“So…Peggy…” Peter starts counting off the possible suspects on his fingers. “Then…‘cover' has to be...Natasha? You kissed _Natasha_?” Peter knows his eyes must be comically wide but he can’t help it. The image of Steve and Natasha together is…it’s not weird, exactly, but it makes him _feel_ weird. 

“Let me reiterate—_cover_. It wasn’t like that.” Steve holds up a finger warningly.

“Got it. Do not ask Natasha about you two making out.” Peter holds up his two fingers, and taps his index finger and thumb together a few times to indicate the missing woman. “Who was the third?”

“It’s not gentlemanly to kiss and tell. Peggy is a matter of public record, everyone knows that, so denying it's no use. Nat doesn't count. But...” Steve shrugs, taking another drink of water. 

“I won’t tell anyone. Who would I tell?” 

Steve narrows his eyes, tilts his head. He’s thinking about spilling, Peter can sense it. Steve’s finger taps against the side of his glass, and he casts his gaze out the window to his right. The name of the diner is painted in a broad swoop across the plate glass in a bright yellow retro font, and the letters cast a strange shadow across Steve’s face. 

“It’s not my aunt, is it?” Peter is only half-kidding. Steve snorts.

“_Peter._”

“I kind of can’t go anywhere without men hitting on her, it frankly wouldn’t be that shocking.” Peter admits, but Steve only shakes his head, blushing a little. 

“Uh, no, no. Not that May isn’t a lovely woman, I mean no offense to her, but, no. I wouldn’t do that. That would be highly inappropriate.” 

Their waitress stops back, sliding a gigantic mug of hot chocolate with a curling dollop of whipped cream in front of Steve, and a steaming cup of coffee and a bowl full of creamers in front of him. She gestures to the container of sugar at the far end of the table, then hands Steve a spoon for his drink. 

Peter doctors up his coffee, taking his best guess, but stops at three creamers and a perhaps far too generous helping of sugar. Steve’s eyebrows lift as he watches him stir it all in. He takes a sip and tries to hide his grimace at the taste. 

Then he folds his hands and looks at Steve, expectant. 

“So. Behind door number three…”

“It was Sharon Carter.” Steve finally says reluctantly. 

“Carter…as in Peggy Carter?”

“Her great-niece. She was a SHIELD agent too, but when I first met her, I honestly didn’t know she was related to Peggy. She was undercover, assigned to protect me when I was in DC. She's at the CIA now.”

“Protect _you_?” That seemed a little stupid, all things considered. 

“Probably more like, keep an eye on me. She helped us out when SHIELD fell, and then again with Bucky, and…after awhile it felt like, _maybe_, I don’t know. It seemed like the right idea at the time.” He picks up his spoon, tapping the bottom of it against the table as he thinks it over. 

Peter stares at him for a minute, processing. 

“That’s weird, Cap.”

“Yes.” Luckily, Steve laughs again, agreeing. He dips his spoon into the whipped cream, nodding as he brings the spoon to his lips. “Yes, it was.” 

“Highly inappropriate, even.” Peter teases, pretending to be affronted. Steve shoots him an annoyed look, then digs out his phone from his back pocket and starts pressing buttons. “What are you doing?”

“Calling May to ask her out for a drink.” He angles away from Peter and brings the phone up to his ear like it’s ringing and he’s waiting for May to pick up. 

“Steve, no!” Peter reaches across the table to grab the phone from him, sending silverware rattling. Steve easily avoids his grasp, wriggling away. 

“Hello, May? This is Steve Rogers, I was wondering—”

“No, no, no.” Peter manages to snag the phone, nearly dropping it in the process. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that Steve hasn’t actually dialed anyone, his home screen—which is, of course, a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge, _come on_, Steve—still active. “You’re such an asshole!” 

Steve shrugs, grinning.

“How does no one else know this.” Peter hands him back his phone. 

“Natasha does. Everyone else who knew it is dead.” Steve replies, and the way he says it makes Peter’s stomach drop. Off-handed and light, like the worst joke ever told. His face must give him away, because Steve frowns and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, that was dark.” 

“Dark is kinda where we’re at these days.” Peter takes another drink to sidestep the tension, the coffee bitter and hot as it scalds down his throat. 

When Peter sets his cup back down, Steve wordlessly pushes his hot chocolate across the table. Then he hooks one finger through the handle of Peter’s coffee and slowly slides it back towards himself. Then he acts like nothing happened, simply cradling the coffee mug between two hands like it’s been his all along. 

“So, what are you going to do about MJ?” Steve scratches his eyebrow with his thumb, face twisted up like he’s considering the issue. “I think you should call her up and ask her out, make a real date. If she says no, then at least you’ll know, right? You can move on.”

“I thought we established that you were unfit to give me advice.”

“You’re the one who asked me.” Steve counters, cocking his head. 

“See...” Peter hedges overdramatically. “That was before I knew you thought kissing Peggy’s great-niece was a good call.” 

Steve glares, but there’s no real heat behind it. Peter swipes his finger through the whipped cream on the hot chocolate and brings it to his mouth. 

Steve’s expression shifts slightly, turning indecipherable, and Peter raises his eyebrows at him.

“What.” He asks around the finger he still has in his mouth. “You switched them, it's mine now. No take backs.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” Steve picks up his menu again, tapping the front page. “But I’m not giving you my breakfast, so choose wisely.” 

Steve leans back against the red vinyl seat of the booth, biting his lip absentmindedly as he peruses his food options. Peter watches him unguardedly for a moment, then ducks behind his own menu to hide his grin. 

He hadn’t expected this, but he really likes hanging out with Captain America.

*******

“It was good of you all to come.” Valkyrie stands at the edge of the dock, offering an arm to Natasha as she climbs out of the small boat. Steve shivers despite himself as he waits his turn to disembark. Without a large enough landing zone for the Quinjet, they’d had to touch down across the bay and then charter a ride across the water to New Asgard. A month before this it would have been straight ice, and despite the early melt it still had been a cold fifteen-minute journey.

“How is he?” Steve asks as he tosses Bruce’s bag up onto the wooden planks and then lifts himself up after it. Bruce opts to use the metal ladder, carefully stepping up the damp, slippery rungs. In his oversized grey knit sweater and leather hiking boots, he already fits in better in the small fishing village than Steve or Natasha do. These days, the Asgardians have traded in their airy, summer robes and shimmering gold plated armor for more practical duds far better suited for hard manual labor in colder climes, but their look is much more rustic than his and Nat's high tech cold weather gear. 

“He is much the same,” Valkyrie sighs, pushing her long, black braid over her shoulder as she glances toward the small peninsula that stretches into the bay, where a lone, ramshackle cabin sits. It looks deserted, but it is not. “No one has even seen him since I last contacted you.” 

“He’s still drinking?” Natasha asks. 

“Far more than his fair share. His people are none too happy about _that_, let me assure you.” Valkyrie leads them down the dock, wood creaking beneath their feet. She pauses at the end of it, turning to Bruce and nudging him with her elbow. “And how are you doing, big guy?” 

“I’m all right. Haven’t seen the actual Big Guy in a while, though,” Bruce replies. 

“Well that’s too bad. Angry Girl’s been spoiling for a fair fight,” she smiles. Steve watches Natasha’s eyes shift between the two, evidently coming to some secret conclusion before she speaks. 

“Bruce, why don’t you and Valkyrie act as advance team. Go see if Thor will let you in first, and then Steve and I will join once you’ve softened him up a bit.” 

“Advance team? How official,” Valkyrie replies, and Steve can’t tell if she’s mocking them or not. “Follow me then.” She jerks her head and starts off down the winding, muddy trail toward Thor’s cottage. Bruce gives them one last look, unsure, and follows her.

Steve turns to Natasha, lifting his eyebrow slightly in question. 

“I’m pretty sure she would be more likely to like you, Nat.” 

Natasha shrugs, watching the pair walk away with a considering look on her face. She heads off the dock and turns the opposite direction, going deeper into the small town. 

“And I'm pretty sure she swings both ways, Cap. And she could be good for him.”

“Like you weren’t?” Steve dares to push, and she shrugs again, making a small noise of dissent. “Did you two ever talk about all that?” 

“He left the _planet_, Steve. I think that said all that was needed to be said,” she replies, her tone brooking no argument. “C’mon. We can wait in here.” 

Natasha pushes open the heavy door of the tavern, leading him inside. It’s rather small. There are three communal tables with long wooden benches, a short bar, and high ceiling that seems lower due to the timber beams criss-crossing the width of room to help support the thatched roof. It feels medieval, save the radio sitting on the edge of the bar that’s blasting a play-by-play of a GET-ligaen game. There are a few other people sitting toward the back corner of the room, where a small wood stove is burning, but they only glanced in their direction as he and Natasha entered and then, disinterested, went back to their own lives. The place smells musty, and the air is warm. Steve unzips his black parka, and Natasha follows suit. 

They sit down on two uncomfortable wooden stools at the bar, facing each other, knees knocking. Her body language is still open, despite her words, so Steve decides to press the issue a little further. 

“I don’t mean to pry. But you both survived the Snap, you’re both here now…you ever think about trying again?” 

“If Tony had survived, would you be giving him another chance?” Natasha counters, signaling the barkeep for two, but two of what, Steve doesn’t know. He frowns, his heart twinging in his chest the way it _always_ has when Tony comes up, even before Tony died. He doesn’t bother denying anything; he and Tony were a poorly kept secret and Natasha’s no fool. 

“Tony was with Pepper.” Steve points out, throat closing up around the words. 

“And Tony was as frequently off with Pepper as he was on. The way I figured it, before the Accords, he was actually with you more often than he was with her.”

“They got _engaged_, Natasha.”

“And surely that had nothing to do with the fact that the two of you weren’t speaking at the time.” 

“Look…I don’t mind being backup in the field,” Steve starts, picking up the glass of beer just placed in front of him. 

“Yeah, right.” Natasha interrupts, rolling her eyes. Steve ignores her. 

“But I got a little tired of it off the field.” It’s the truth, even if it hurts. He and Tony had flirted with it after the Battle of New York, but they really fell into something messy after the fall of SHIELD. His life was overturned yet again, and Tony didn't deliver on his promise to give up Iron Man for Pepper, so for over a year they'd found solace in each other between team missions and Steve's own searches for Bucky.

But it was obvious he was only Tony's stop-gap. The Ultron debacle proved that once and for all, so Steve pretended it was fine when Tony quit the team and abruptly went back to Pepper.

It wasn’t fine. 

He takes a long drink, buying himself some time to line up the right words in his mind. The beer is smooth and cool going down, but he suspects it's merely regular ol' Midgardian alcohol, not the hard Asgardian stuff that makes even his head swim. 

“Tony and I were over long before the team split. We were never a real option. He made that clear.” He sounds definitive and dispassionate and detached, and Steve's almost impressed with himself for managing it. He taps the wooden bar top with two fingers, and then points at Nat. “And don’t think I don’t know you’re trying to change the focus of this conversation to me.” 

“Damn, and here I thought it was working.” Natasha retorts dryly, twisting her mug in slow circles on the bar top.

“I’m onto your tricks.” He sits back against the stool, but not too far, as the thing feels pretty rickety. 

“Not all of ‘em, I hope.” Natasha takes a sip of her beer, eyeing him over the rim. “Speaking of Tony, though, and totally not as another distraction—”

“Uh-huh.”

“How’s the kid?” 

“Peter? He’s doing all right.” Steve pauses, wondering for a moment if that’s accurate, but then he decides it’s a pretty fair assessment. Peter has so much going on in his life right now, it's like he hasn't considered being anything but resilient in the face of adversity. Steve admires him for it. “He finally asked out MJ. They’re going on their third date this week.” 

“Good.” Natasha says it strangely, like maybe it isn’t actually good. He quirks his face at her, questioning. “No, it’s good. At least someone is moving on.” 

Steve looks down at his beer, the liquid dark and murky in the pewter mug. He can’t see the bottom. 

“But not us.”

“Not us,” Natasha agrees, sadly. 

Steve sets down his drink, and runs a hand through his hair, scrapes his fingers down his beard. He’s letting it go again, even though he knows he shouldn’t. He still doesn't have his shield, and the beard is a step back to his days without his country, without the title. People need Captain America now, something recognizable and reassuring, so the beard feels curiously like self-sabotage, undermining his own stated goals. Just because he's aware of that doesn't mean he's going to shave it, though.

“You’re doing a good thing, keeping an eye on Pete, but you know you don’t have to shoulder that all on your own, right?" Natasha's been taking this tone with him a lot lately, sisterly and concerned, like he's one step away from becoming like Thor. He hates it. "We can all take turns checking in on him. You’re stretching yourself pretty thin.” 

“And you’re not?” Like he doesn't know how late she stays up at night, hitting up her sources and scouring the world for some trace of Clint, after long days managing the rest of the world's problems.

“Steve.” 

“I don’t mind. He’s a good kid.”

“He is. And he still will be even if you back off a bit, take some time for yourself. I know you feel like you owe Tony this, but—”

“Don’t I, though?” Steve cuts her off sharply. “If it weren’t for me, Tony would be here. Right? Peter would have him.” 

“Steve…” Natasha sighs tiredly. They’ve been having some version of this conversation for months now, Steve assuming blame and Natasha trying to take some of it away. They’re both exhausted by it, going around in circles, and Steve doesn’t want to do this again now, here, when they’re supposed to be helping Thor. 

“Never mind. It’s fine, Nat.” He finishes his drink in two long gulps and pushes the stein away from his reach. 

“I don’t know what we’re going to say to Thor when we can’t even get ourselves sorted.” Natasha mutters, putting down her own beer. Steve chuckles, somewhat amused. 

“We are kind of a mess, aren’t we.” He offers her a small smile and she manages to muster one up for him in return. They're partners in this. If he didn't have Natasha, he doesn't want to imagine what he would do. He'd be utterly lost.

The bartender refills his mug and Steve pulls it back toward him, but he doesn’t take another drink just yet. 

“I don’t mind, really. Peter, I mean.” He clarifies, getting back to her original point. “He actually reminds me of Tony, in some ways.” Steve thinks of the way Peter’s eyes light up when he’s discussing science, or the way he talks so fast and animatedly when he’s excited that sometimes his mouth can’t quite keep up with his brain, or how quick he is with a quip and a laugh, somehow already attuned to when Steve needs to lighten up.

“Hmmph.” Natasha leans an elbow on the bar, resting her chin in her hand. “That’s funny.”

“What is?”

“Nothing.” 

“Come on, what?”

“You come on. A bright-eyed, whip smart, sensitive but stubborn young orphan from Queens, out of his league yet determined to help, to do what’s right? Who does that remind you of, Rogers?” 

Steve blinks at her. He and Peter do have a bit in common, but he hadn’t really thought of it that way before. 

“I’m from Brooklyn.” He mumbles, like that’s really the point. She rolls her eyes at him.

“Bringing a fifteen year old kid—superpowered or not—into this was irresponsible, even for Tony. You never wondered why he did it?”

“Was there a rational reason for anything Tony did?” He replies, a bit unfairly. Tony did have his reasons, even if he put them into action rather impulsively. Steve tries a different, more measured answer. “I assumed it was a case of desperate times call for desperate measures. I didn't leave him with a ton of options.”

“Maybe. Partially. You _were_ far better at rallying people to your cause."

"Even got you, eventually."

"Yeah, Tony just loved that." Natasha glances off to the side, clearly thinking back on some memory, then re-focuses on him. "If it were about mere numbers, Steve, Tony could have gone to Luke, or even Rand. Even if there was no convincing Jessica or Daredevil, you know the other two would've been worth a shot. He didn't even try. There are powered SHIELD agents who could've been _ordered_ to help him out. When it comes down to it, Tony recruited Peter because he wanted another _you_ around. Granted, a you who might do what he said, but...” 

“Yeah, because Peter listened to him _so well_.” Steve may not have been there, but he knows about the Vulture and the Staten Island Ferry, and Peter turning down Tony’s invitation to be an Avenger, and that Peter had wound up stranded in outer space precisely because he disobeyed Tony’s orders. “More like me than he really wanted, huh.” 

“All he ever wanted was you.” Natasha says, and he wishes she wouldn’t. Why are they still on this? “He loved you, you know. Just because he never said it, just because you weren’t together—”

“Nat, please don’t.” He closes his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his eyebrows as his head starts to ache. 

“All I’m saying is: you’re allowed to mourn him.”

“That’s not what I’ve been doing?” Steve spits out, pretty sure that he’s been doing nothing but mourn for months now. 

“_All_ of him, Steve, including all that was between you two that you are still trying to hide.” 

“Hey, weren’t we talking about Bruce?” He shoots back at her, but without much venom. He’s too tired for it, honestly. 

Natasha is saved from replying by the tavern door swinging open with such great force it bangs against the wall. Thor stands in the entryway, silhouetted by the sharp winter daylight. Bruce is behind him, looking meek and weary. 

“Friends! You are here!” Thor shouts, with a verve that sounds manic. He looks terrible, his hair grown down past his ears and possibly un-brushed and unwashed for days, his beard scraggly and his t-shirt covered in food stains. Despite the cold weather he's wearing knee-length basketball shorts and flip flops. He lumbers toward Steve and Natasha, his broad hands already out to clap them vigorously on their shoulders. He shakes them both a little too hard.

“Thor—” Steve starts, immediately concerned. Thor almost knocks over Natasha’s stool as he wedges himself in between them to get the bartender’s attention. Steve reaches out to steady her, albeit unnecessarily, as she’s already caught her foot on the bottom rung of his stool and tilted herself back up. 

“Barkeep!” The man is nearly right in front of him, which Thor only notices after he shouts. “Oh, my good man. Another round for my friends and I. It is a reunion.”

Bruce wanders into the tavern slowly, giving Steve and Natasha a look in turn. The expression on his face tells them all they need to know. 

“Thor, why don’t you sit down,” Steve suggests, a steadying hand on the man's arm. 

“No, let us celebrate!” Thor replies, even though he’s already choking back tears. “I am happy…I am happy to see you all. I…oh, no.” He spins on his heel and lurches over a nearby barrel that’s serving as a trash can, retching violently. 

“I think maybe you can stop worrying about me.” Steve says to Natasha, who pushes up to stand and crosses to Thor, holding his hair back as he continues emptying the contents of his stomach. She shakes her head at him. 

“But you know how good I am at multitasking.”

*******

“You’re staring again.” MJ says without looking up from her work, pencil scribbling furiously across lined paper.

“No, I wasn’t.” Peter quickly denies, flipping the page in his book, which is propped against his knee, which is propped against the kitchen table. He jiggles a little, earning him a deadly glare from his girlfriend. He stops fidgeting. 

“Read the chapter, then we can start quizzing each other for the next history exam.”

“I _am_ reading. I was merely…also appreciating your hair. I can do two things at once.” 

“No you can’t. Multitasking is a myth.” MJ replies, still not deigning to give him with her full attention, but a small, pleased smile blooms over her face. It always makes him feel really good when he can make that happen, because he’s never known anyone so determined not to show her feelings. She's even worse than Steve.

“It looks nice today. With the braid and everything.” 

“You’re impossible.” She picks up her own copy of _Wide Sargasso Sea_ and holds it up so he can see the tassel of her bookmark; she only has a few chapters left to go. “See where I am? And you haven’t even finished _Jane Eyre_.”

“But you’ve already read _Jane Eyre_, so…”

“That’s beside the point. We’re supposed to be doing this presentation together.”

“I could just watch the movie.”

“I could just kill you.”

“Well that’s an overreaction.” 

“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes and goes back to her calculus homework. 

The multiple locks of the apartment door click open, one after the other, announcing May’s arrival home. Peter looks up expectantly as she walks in, rain shaking from her closed umbrella. He is surprised to find that his aunt isn’t alone, Happy Hogan following in right behind her with his arms full of groceries, his hair and black suit wet, the bags damp from the rain with their bottoms near breaking. 

“Hey, you two,” May greets them, peeling off her rain coat and hanging it on the rack. “It’s spring break, why are you working? One of these days it’d be really great to walk in on the two of you making out on the couch like normal teenagers.” 

“May!”

“Not saying it has to be _90210_ around here or anything but you could loosen up, a little smooching never hurt anybody.” 

“_May._”

“No, no, there’s gonna be a _90210_ revival now with the original cast members, I am hip again, don’t try me.” 

“I don’t think he was objecting to the reference,” Happy points out, huffing as he sets the three overstuffed paper bags on the kitchen counter. 

“I, for one, appreciate your progressive stance on teenage sexuality and your open-minded approach to these kinds of important conversations.” MJ states, setting down her pencil and giving May her attention. “Your nephew, however, hasn’t done the reading assignment for a project that’s due after break, so, here we are.” 

“Wait, you’re saying if I had read this we could have been—” Peter glances toward the couch, his imagination getting the better of him. MJ arches her eyebrow and May laughs from the kitchen as she goes about unpacking the groceries. 

“Whatcha readin’?” Happy asks, still slightly out of breath. Peter holds up the book so Happy can see the title. “_Jane Eyre_. Can’t you, uh, watch the movie? There’s like fifteen versions.”

“See!” Peter is triumphant, using the book to point at MJ. She isn’t convinced. 

“MJ, would you like to stay for dinner? I’m making spaghetti, but I did get gluten-free pasta.” 

“That would be great, May, thank you. Happy, are you joining?” MJ asks pointedly. Peter knows she approves of how often Happy has been stopping by lately to “check in” or “help out”—and she’d lectured Peter about middle-aged women needing to be valued in society, and be culturally allowed to be sexual, and have rich, fulfilling lives no matter what their age, even though he _hadn’t said a word_ to the otherwise. 

Even so, he’s not so sure about how he feels about it. Not that it would necessarily be a bad thing for Happy to start dating May, but it feels a little like…worlds colliding. Of course, he can’t tell MJ that, so for now he just fakes a smile and hides his unease. 

“Oh, I…I hadn’t been planning on it, but, uh…” Happy looks at May, clearly waiting for her approval before accepting MJ's suggestion.

“Of course, stay, Happy. The more the merrier,” May encourages off-handedly as she clangs two pots onto the stove. Peter can tell she likes Happy okay, but he can't quite get a read on whether she _likes_ him likes him or not. “We always appreciate having you here, don’t we, Peter?”

“Sure do.” Peter tries to sound enthusiastic. MJ shoots him a warning look as if she knows he doesn't really mean it. 

Thankfully, Peter’s phone buzzes, saving him from further discussion of Happy and his aunt. He picks it up off the table to find a text from Steve. He and Nat are on some diplomatic mission to Japan at the behest of Secretary Ross, and Steve’s honestly none too happy about it. But the top tiers of Japan’s leadership had disappeared in the Snap and relations since then have been a bit unstable, though Steve has been pretty up front about the fact that he thinks the U.S. government is the root cause of the tension, not Japan. 

He’s grateful that Spider-Man hasn’t quite leveled up to Captain America’s tier, because he is nowhere near ready to wade into the mess of international relations. 

Things must be going smoothly, however, because Steve has only sent him an animated gif of Totoro and the message: _I have been informed that I actually know nothing about art if I haven’t seen Studio Ghibli films._

Peter sets his book aside and quickly types a response. 

_Movie marathon when you get back. I’m off school until Monday._ He hits send and then pauses, deciding to compose another. _How are you holding up?_

Those three dots linger for a minute or so, Steve taking a bit to reply.

_Okay. I’m used to acting the trained monkey. _

He almost sends that gif of the monkey signaling the other to come in for a hug, but just as quickly deletes it and sends a simple frowny face emoticon instead, with a simple _Sorry._

Steve doesn’t reply right away so Peter sets his phone down. He should return to reading, but he glances outside and stares at the rain instead. It’s been coming down for hours now, the fourth rainy day in a row. He sighs, and thinks about skipping patrol tonight. The neighborhood has been quiet lately, despite most of the kids being out of school for the week. 

His phone buzzes again. 

_I’ll be back tomorrow. Only one more day of this ahead._

Peter pauses for a moment, realizing that it’s 7am where Steve is. Of course he’s up that early, that shouldn’t surprise him. 

_Want anything from Japan?_

_Wouldn’t mind a cool robot._

_Natasha says she got you matcha. We went to a tea ceremony yesterday._

_That is not a robot._

_I will try to find you a robot. In the meantime, Natasha says that your hipster drink will have to suffice._

_It’s better than coffee. MJ likes it._

_Speaking of MJ, she wants me to stop distracting you. You should read your book._

Peter snaps his head toward MJ, realizing all too late that she is also on her phone. She stares him down with a self-satisfied smirk. 

“What the—? How did you—? How did you know this was Steve?” He finally manages to ask.

"You have a tell. When it's him."

"I have a...?" He narrows his eyes at her. “Wait, how did you even get Steve’s number?” 

Another text comes through and he’s about to ignore it to focus on this new information that has suddenly come to light, but the quick glance he gives his screen has yet another revelation. 

_And I was about to text May, but can you let her know I’m in Japan and thank her for the dinner invite?_

Peter stands up. 

“Is there anyone in this room who does not have Steve’s number?” He yelps unflatteringly. Both May and Happy look at him, confused. “Steve just said to thank you for the invitation but, y’know, he’s in Japan so _he won’t be joining us for dinner_.”

“Oh, that’s too bad," May frowns, then shrugs. "We’ll get him next time ‘round.” 

“You invited Steve to dinner?” Happy asks, a slight look of alarm in his eyes, but May isn’t paying him too much attention. 

“The guy needs to get out more,” May says like that much is obvious, waving Happy off. 

“You invited Steve to dinner.” Peter repeats. 

“He needs to eat. What’s the problem, I thought you _liked_ hanging out with him.” 

“I do, I just…how did any of you get his contact info?”

“Peter, remember, he gave it to me. Back when you were recup…” May stops herself. “Back when you were working on that Stark Industries thing.” 

“I stole his number from your phone,” MJ jumps in. 

“You did what now?”

“Relax, I’m kidding. I didn’t look at any of your superhero BFF texts. He gave it to me in case I needed anything, as like, a courtesy, because he's a friend of the family. I mean, since I am Spider-Man’s girlfriend and all.” 

May drops a plate onto the counter with a clatter and Happy’s mouth falls open. Peter stares at MJ, sputtering. 

“What? No. No you’re not.”

“I’m not your girlfriend?” MJ furrows her brow, gesturing between them. “I thought we had that awkward conversation already. You asked, and I said—” 

“No, I mean, that other thing.” Peter cuts her off, in full-on panic mode. “Spider-Man? I’m not Spider-Man. Why would you…? Steve didn't say that, did he? That’s crazy. I mean, I…I _know_ Spider-Man. I’ve met him. Nice guy, a nice guy who is not me. I…I’ve run into most of the Avengers because of the…because of the Stark Internship, so, yeah, I know them. But I’m not, like, one of them…that’s insane.” 

MJ doesn’t react to his prattle; she leans back in her chair, crosses her arms, and simply waits for him to be done. 

“He’s not Spider-Man, MJ.” May laughs nervously.

“No, I’ve met Spider-Man. He’s much…taller.” Happy chimes in, and Peter holds back the glare he desperately wants to give him. 

“Don’t you think I would know if Peter was Spider-Man?” May picks up the plate she dropped and starts getting silverware and napkins out for dinner. MJ swivels toward his aunt. 

“But you do know. Happy certainly knows, and I’m pretty sure Ned does too. And frankly, I’m a little offended that you think I wouldn’t figure it out.”

“MJ—”

“And no, Steve didn't say a word about it. I’ve actually correlated data between Spider-Man’s appearances and your weird disappearances, Peter. I have a chart, I can bring it up on my laptop if you need proof as to how ridiculous it is to continue this charade.”

“How long have you been tracking Spider-Man?”

“I’ve suspected since Washington, but I’ve known since you went missing from the bus the day Spider-Man fought Thanos’ crew, followed by you basically going missing somewhere upstate for like, weeks and weeks. Where the Avengers Compound is.” 

“I was—”

“I know, ‘working on something for Stark.’ Come on, man.” 

“Pete, I think it’s time to give up the ghost, here, pal.” Happy walks to his side, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Your girl’s got you dead to rights.” 

“Well if she didn’t, she sure would now, Happy.” Peter doesn’t hold back his glare this time. “Could you please go awkwardly flirt with my aunt again and let me talk to MJ?” 

Happy puts both hands up and backs away, excusing himself from the situation. May signals him to return to the kitchen.

“You know what, Peter? I forgot wine. To go with dinner. So stupid of me. Happy and I will be right back.” She grabs her raincoat and ushers Happy toward the door, ignoring his protests that it’s still raining cats and dogs out there. Peter tilts his head at May in gratitude as they duck out into the hallway, leaving him with MJ. 

He doesn’t know what to say to her. Steve warned him, he said she would figure it out. And now she’s looking at him like she expects him to...he doesn’t know. Do something, say something. 

“You could’ve told me, Peter. I can keep a secret.” MJ says quietly, letting on for the first time that she might actually be hurt. He’s at a loss. 

“That’s not it. I just…can you…just one second. I need...” He doesn’t finish telling her what he needs. He picks up his phone and retreats to his room, pressing the call symbol at the top of his still-open text message exchange with Steve. 

“Pete?” Steve picks up almost immediately. He sounds slightly out of breath, which is unusual. 

“Steve, she knows.” 

“Who knows what? Sorry, hang on for a moment.” There’s a muffled noise and then Steve is back. “What’s going on?”

“MJ knows I’m Spider-Man. She figured it out.” 

There’s a pause on the line. It’s not even that long, but his worry makes him impatient and frustrated. 

“You can say ‘I told you so,’ but can you also tell me what I’m supposed to do now?” 

“I wasn’t going to say I told you so.” Steve replies, his voice gentle. “How is she taking it?”

“She wants to know why I didn’t tell her myself.” He flops down onto the lower bunk, heaving a sigh. He grabs his pillow with his free hand and clutches it to his chest. 

“All you can do now is tell her the whole truth, Peter.”

“The more people know, the greater chance it gets out. And it’s dangerous for her to know. She could be a target.” He has listed these reasons over and over to himself since the day he realized he wanted MJ as more than a friend. 

“She becomes a target if the bad guys know who you are, not if she knows who you are. Keeping her in the dark only gives you the illusion that your two lives are separate.”

“I know, but—” He sits up, ready to protest, but Steve marches on. 

“And it sounds to me like if she knows you are Spider-Man and chooses to be with you anyway, she’s okay with the risks.”

“The risks are abstract. She doesn’t really _know_, you know? And she won’t, until something happens, and by then it’s too late.” He can imagine it all too vividly, watching some unrepentant sociopath like Thanos holding MJ hostage, and him standing there too helpless to stop it. 

“Well, you can’t live your life afraid to make connections, or you’re going to be totally alone. All you can do is be honest, honor her choices, and protect her as best you can. She must think you’re worth it.” 

“I…I guess that makes sense, when you put it like that.” If he ever doubted that Steve was a morning person, the past few minutes of eloquent, straightforward, on-the-mark commentary certainly cleared that up. “Uh…thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” 

“You really are good at this advice thing.”

“Oh, well, those words of wisdom are coming from someone much, much smarter than me,” Steve responds, chuckling in that broken way of his when a memory is painful and bittersweet. 

“Yeah, well…I guess I should go talk to her, if she hasn't left already.” Peter glances toward his closed bedroom door. He hadn’t heard anyone go, but the rest of the apartment seems dreadfully quiet. 

“Wait, MJ’s still there? _Peter._” Steve admonishes. “You could’ve said you were in the middle of this conversation _right now_.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely happening right now, so I’m really glad you picked up.” Peter smiles into the phone even though Steve can’t see him. “I should let you get back to, uh, whatever you were doing before I interrupted.”

“I’m on my morning run.”

“Of course you are.”

“Let me know how it goes with MJ. I’ll be in meetings all day so I might not text back, but I’d like to know things are okay.” 

“I’ll do that.”

He’s about to hang up when Steve’s voice stops him.

“Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s all gonna be fine.” He doesn’t say anything else and Peter almost doesn’t reply, wanting to let Steve’s determined, reassuring words keep ringing in his ears. 

“Thanks, Cap.” He ends the call and tosses the phone back onto his mattress. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair and then opens his bedroom door. 

MJ is still sitting at the table, her pencil moving idly in circles on her paper. She looks up at him as he walks into the hall. 

“Did you have a nice confab with Captain America?” MJ asks, a bit bitingly, but then her face softens. She lets her pencil tip down onto the table and roll away. 

“So. Um.” Peter rubs his hands together, thinking maybe he should have taken a beat to figure out the right thing to say first. “So, I _am_ Spider-Man. And I _am_ sorry for not telling you. It seemed…safer. But I realize now that that was stupid.” 

“Apology noted.” 

“Would you…would you like to see the suit.” 

That brings the sparkle back to her eyes, and she stands up, nodding emphatically. 

When May comes home and finds him and MJ in his bedroom, him half-naked and climbing out of his Spider suit, she doesn’t believe him that he was only doing a demonstration, giving him a knowing wink as she leaves the room. 

MJ thinks it’s hilarious.

*******

The roar of the crowd is deafening as the Mets head into the sixth inning, only one run behind the Yankees as they have been since the second. It’s the last Subway Series game of the regulation season and the tension is running high. All the MLB having to pull half their rosters up from the minors to fill out their decimated teams has made this season lively, to say the least.

Carrying two Italian subs from Mama’s and two sodas, Steve carefully takes the stairs back down to where Peter is waiting. Their seats in the Promenade Outfield are nosebleeds for sure, but Peter had stubbornly insisted on purchasing the tickets himself. He’d been a little embarrassed about it, but honestly Steve doesn’t mind in the slightest. For most of his life he hadn’t two nickels to rub together, so he’s no stranger to a nearly empty pocketbook. The cheap seats were all he and Bucky could ever scrounge up back when the Dodgers played at Ebbets anyway, so this all feels comfortably familiar.

His situation isn’t so dire now, so he’s made sure to pick up any other tabs throughout the evening. 

“Here you go.” Steve nudges Peter’s shoulder. He looks up with a grin, eyes alight underneath the rim of his bright blue Mets cap. He takes his share of the food with thanks. 

“You didn’t miss anything important.” Peter informs him as Steve plops down in the seat beside him. Steve sets his drink in the cupholder, and then unhooks his aviators from the neck of his t-shirt, having forgotten to put them back on before coming back out from the food court. He slips them on and adjusts his ball cap. The beard had obscured his identity for a while, but folks are beginning to get used to it with how much he’s been in the public eye lately. But when he's with Peter, he doesn't want to draw unnecessary attention, doesn't want to be Captain America. Peter doesn't need that. The baseball hat and sunglasses help, but the sun is going down over the west side of the stadium so he’s not sure how much longer he can keep the shades without it seeming even more conspicuous. 

The stadium lights are bright, but they’re not that bright. 

Peter lifts his paper cup and holds it out to Steve, evidently looking for a toast. Steve obligingly taps his own cup to Peter’s, ice rattling. 

“Happy birthday, Steve,” he says, taking a long sip. “I know it’s a day early, but the Mets aren’t playing tomorrow, so.”

It honestly hadn’t occurred to Steve that this outing was for him. He wasn't even aware Peter knew his birthday. Peter’s insistence on buying the tickets made a lot more sense now. 

“Thank you, Peter," He smiles, touched at the unexpected gesture. "Couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate.” 

“If you’re sharing tomorrow with the whole country, you might as well get today for yourself,” Peter replies, then scrunches his forehead like he’s puzzling something through. “I still don’t believe your birthday is really the 4th of July, that that’s not just PR nonsense.”

“No, it’s real. I will be 101 tomorrow. Or 34. Depends how you wanna figure it.” He goes by 34, but neither number really makes much sense. He’s too young to be 101 and too old to be 34. 

“Well, you don’t look a day over 90.” 

“The Botox and butt implants really help sell it,” he deadpans, and Peter snorts Pepsi out his nose, dribbling it down the front of his black t-shirt. 

“Oh, damn, fizzy bubbles up there really hurts! Ow, ow!” He exclaims, two fingers pinching between his eyebrows and the other hand quickly wiping at his mouth and chin. He bounces in his seat, thumping his foot on the ground to try and work out some of the pain. Steve hands him a napkin, admittedly a little pleased with himself. He hasn’t made anyone laugh that hard since Bucky. “How in the world do _you_ know about butt implants?” 

“The things you learn on social media.” He shrugs, decidedly _not_ mentioning the brief he’d received from the White House Communications Office letting him know he had become the subject of a viral meme, apparently after much heated Internet debate about the authenticity of his glutes. Why that was of concern to government intelligence, he wasn’t sure, but it seems they are keeping tabs on all Avenger-related press items. 

“Oh yeah, #AmericasAss, I saw that trending,” Peter cracks up again, but this time with more restraint. “Followed closely by #PatrioticPecs and #GiveMeLibertyOrGiveMeDick.”

“Oh dear god.” Steve buries his face in his hands. He’d only seen the first hashtag and then promptly signed off before he died of mortification. 

“You need to stop running in the city where people can see you. Or wear looser shirts. Longer shorts.” Peter blinks at him innocently as he takes another drink.

“Seeing me is kind of the point, that’s why I moved back—it’s supposed to be reassuring to the public to have an Avenger—” Steve stops, sighing. He’d found a place in Fort Greene and has been trying to spend every other week in the city, away from the isolation of the Avengers Compound, but it hasn’t had the exact effect he’d hoped. “You’d think with all that’s happened over the past year, people would have different priorities.” 

“The internet will never _not_ be thirsty, Steve.” Peter takes a huge bite of his sub, mayo smearing on his upper lip. “Cheer up—it may not be how you imagined helping people get back to normal, but people calling you Daddy and asking to sit on your face is actually, uh, pretty normal.” 

Steve makes a face, both because of what Peter is saying and also that he’s saying it around a mouthful of masticated food. Peter mistakes his dismay for confusion. 

“You know, ‘cause of the beard.” Peter gestures around his own jawline.

“Yeah, yeah, I got that much.” Steve snaps a little, rubbing his hand over his beard self-consciously. 

“You don’t have to be embarrassed—like I said, it’s probably a good thing.” 

“It’s not…” Steve sighs again, wondering how to put this so he doesn’t sound _exactly_ what everyone expects him to sound like. “We weren’t prudes in the 1930s and ’40s, not like people now make us all out to be. People swore, people drank, and people had a lot of sex. I’m fine with people talking about sex. I’m just not used to the discussion of it being so _public._”

“Is that necessarily bad, people being more open about it? Puritanical thinking is a tool of the patriarchy.” 

Steve smiles despite himself.

“Did MJ tell you that?”

“I read it in a book.” Peter hedges, setting down his half-demolished sandwich and wiping mustard from his fingers. Steve waits for the other shoe to drop. “Okay, fine, in a book that MJ gave me.” 

“Well, you’re not wrong. I don’t mean that it’s bad, just that…I have to get used to everyone talking about it so easily. When I was 17, I never would have said the word _dick_ around pretty much anyone but Bucky, and now it’s a hashtag.” 

“I’m 18 next month and it’s specifically _your_ dick that’s a hashtag. To be clear.” Peter openly teases him now, scrolling and then pulling something up on his phone. “In this one they even took a poll about your underwear.” 

Steve glances at the picture—he recognizes it from earlier in the week, when he’d jogged around Alphabet City. A bold red circle is drawn around his groin, apparently highlighting a suggestive bulge that is clearly a trick of shadows on fabric as he moved. Between the choices of boxers, briefs, boxer-briefs, and commando, _briefs_ leads the poll. 

“They’re wrong about that one,” Steve points out, trying to be cooler with this than he is. 

On the field, the Yankees get a decent hit and the outfielder fumbles the ball. The man on third runs home. The sudden surge in action brings Steve’s attention back to the game. The stadium erupts in equal amounts of celebration and jeers, music pumping out of the banks of speakers. The electronic scoreboard on the left lights up with player stats and the one to the right, just behind them, updates the score and other game info. But it’s hard to focus on any of that with all the garish advertising plastered on every other available inch surrounding the boards. 

He remembers his own sandwich, now soggy, but he forces it down rather than wasting it. Another hit brings in another run, and he’s reminded that they somehow wound up mostly surrounded by Yankees fans, people around them up on their feet and shouting, clapping, chest-bumping, high-fiving. 

The inning ends with the next batter, however, leaving the Yankees ahead now by three going into the seventh. In the changeover, the scoreboards switch over to the Kiss Cam, another new and awkward tradition that has been added to baseball since his Dodger days. He looks away, uninterested, but then Pete hits him on the shoulder. 

“Oh shit.” Steve lets slip as the camera lands on him and Peter. It refocuses right almost immediately, re-framing to instead include him and the complete stranger sitting beside him.

She’s a middle-aged woman with long, dyed blonde hair—teased the way he’d only seen in photos of the ’70s and ’80s—and an old Jeter jersey. She shrugs at him gamely and says _Why not?_, so he shrugs back and leans in. It is the most awkward kiss he’s ever had, which is saying a lot. Her pink lipstick tastes like wax. The crowd whoops and hollers around them, a smooch between a Mets and a Yankees fan playing well to the stands. 

He keeps it short and sweet, blushing despite himself, and hopes the camera swings away before anyone takes a harder look and realizes that’s Captain America up there, over fifty feet high on the JumboTron. 

He doesn’t know what to say to the woman after it’s done, so he shrugs again, hapless, and turns back in his seat. He discreetly tries to wipe his lips of both the lipstick and its taste. 

“Well that was heteronormative as hell.” Peter states, gesturing up to the screen where another young couple is now making out. “There’s no reason they couldn’t have left it on us.”

“It could’ve been because you’re half my age, Peter,” Steve points out, wanting to give them, whoever ‘they’ are that operate the dang camera, the benefit of the doubt. The beard ages him up a bit, and Peter does look young. Most people probably wouldn’t guess he’s leaving for college in little over a month. 

“And that’s ageist!” Peter counters, voice rising. 

“I’m sorry, did you want me to kiss you?” Steve asks, jokingly. 

“_No_, Steve,” Peter replies petulantly, as if that’s more than obvious. Steve is relieved they don’t have to have a conversation about _that_ issue. “It’s the principle of the thing!” Peter seems exasperated that Steve’s not on board with his ire. 

“Tell you what, the kiss cam comes back around, I will grab the nearest younger guy who is not you and ask him to kiss me, okay?” 

“It doesn’t come back around to the same people, you dork. That’s not how it works.”

“I’m a dork now? Thanks.” Steve laughs, shaking his head. Peter has his phone out again, and he snaps a picture of Steve before he even has a chance to react. “What was that for?”

“Commemorating the moment of kiss #4.”

“What?”

“You know, that makes four. Peggy, Natasha, Sharon, and now Kiss-Cam Lady.” He nudges Steve on the shoulder repeatedly, and then gestures toward the woman, who is back talking to her own friends and no longer paying them any attention. “You should really get her name so we don’t have to call her that.” 

Something occurs to Steve then, and he can’t believe he ever forgot it. 

“No wait, that would make five.”

“Did you finally sign up for Tinder?” 

“What? No. _No._ It was this dame—woman, I mean—at the main base in London. I think her name was Lorraine. After I got back from Azzano, when I pulled Bucky out…she thanked me for saving those men.” It all washes over him in an instant, her hand winding in his tie, pulling him behind the shelves. She’d kissed him before he’d realized it coming and he’d been so shocked by someone wanting to kiss _him_, he’d let it happen. “I haven’t thought about that in ages. That was...that was actually my first kiss with a gal.” 

“Your first? Wow.”

“Peggy walked in on it. She wasn’t happy.” Steve smiles at the thought of Peggy picking up that gun and firing it at him like it was no matter if the shield protected him or not. He knows other people would probably think it strange to categorize that memory as _fond_, but damned if that wasn’t Peggy all over. He’d been so clueless with her then, such a chump, talking about fondue and Stark and…

He doesn’t mean to get lost in his own head, but the remembrance is two-fold now, pulling him in. The original incident is layered underneath the time he’d told Tony all about the fondue misunderstanding. Tony had laughed riotously, admitted that if his father had been the one to say it, even he might have taken it for a double entendre too. Then he proved his genetic lineage by offering to ‘fondue’ Steve right there on the living room couch. 

“There’s supposed to be fireworks tonight, after the game,” Peter comments, interrupting Steve’s quickly spiraling thoughts. Steve glances at him and finds Peter looking at him like he knows Steve just went somewhere else entirely. It’s strange how often he finds Peter doing that, looking right through him like he knows it’s all a mask, a rickety put-up job. 

His mother would’ve called Peter an old soul. Steve figures between his parents, his uncle, and the Snap, the kid had to grow up fast. 

Steve knows a thing or two about that. 

“Let’s go get some ice cream and wait for them to start.” Peter goes on, already starting to get up and collect their trash. 

“You don’t wanna…?” Steve gestures to the field, to the game still in play. 

“They’re gonna lose, it’s fine.” 

“Oh, okay.”

“Unless, do you want to stay? I don’t mind, I just thought—”

“No, they’re certainly no Dodgers.” 

“Sure, old timer. Whatever you say.” 

Steve follows Peter up the stairs, out of the stands. By the time they get to the front of the long concession line and get their ice cream, the game is winding down, the Mets losing by four runs now and barely putting up a fight. They don’t bother to re-claim their seats, instead leaning on the concrete barrier between the concourse and the stands. They slowly finish their ice cream and watch the last inning from there. 

As fireworks light up the night sky, Peter reacts to the display with an innocent wonder that Steve has almost entirely forgotten could exist. He’d felt like that, once. 

“That never gets old,” Peter grins unguardedly as he gazes upward, the explosions of sparkling color reflecting in his wide, dark eyes. It reminds Steve of Bucky, on those long-gone Independence Days where they’d sit on the roof in the sticky July heat and Buck would try and convince him the fireworks were really for him, for his birthday. 

The memory doesn’t quite ache the way he expects it to, and he finds himself surprised to realize that he feels relatively happy for the first time in years, since before the Snap, before the Accords. Hanging out with Peter no longer seems like a duty, or a penance, or even a kindness. 

They might actually be friends.

*******

“Why did you think this was a good idea again?”

Peter whirls around to where MJ is sitting in the bed of the truck, pushing boxes and bags toward the tailgate. Her new student orientation doesn’t start until the last day of August, nearly a week away, so she’d gladly come along to help move him in and get him situated. 

“You offered! I said you didn’t have to—”

“Not me, you gigantic doofus. _That._” She nods her head toward to Steve, walking back down the sidewalk toward them. He’s wearing dark blue jeans, a tight, light gray t-shirt, and a maroon MIT ball cap, and despite this being his fifth or sixth trip back and forth from the truck to Peter’s dorm room, he hasn’t so much as broken a sweat.

What he has done, however, as Peter is just now realizing, is drawn a crowd of obvious admirers. He surveys the courtyard. It’s swarming with other students and families busily loading in, but paces slow, heads turn, and gazes follow Steve whenever he passes. Some girls have given up all pretense and are sitting on the metal railing along the sloping set of stairs that lead to the front entrance, their eyes wide and trained on Steve as he moves. Peter winces as someone's mom twists to look and nearly walks into the open door. 

“Did you want to carry all this stuff? He wanted to help.” Peter points out, gesturing to the still half-full truck. Happy at least had managed to get one that didn’t have the Stark logo slapped on each side, for which he’s grateful. He's also especially grateful that Steve is here, because the building is swarming with people and going in and out of the hustle and bustle, again and again, when he's already so amped up and anxious already, sets his senses on overload. Staying out here unloading the truck while Steve takes stuff in has been an absolute godsend. 

“I thought you wanted to blend in.” MJ retorts. “For the record, that’s not blending in.” She gestures as another person, a guy this time, snaps a pic of Steve with his phone. “That’s Captain America moving your shit into your dorm room.”

“It’s not like he’s wearing the uniform.” Peter grunts, making sure to fake tremendous effort when unloading his mini-fridge onto the curb. “I bet most of these people don’t even realize it’s him.”

Steve all but jogs up to them, looking as fresh as he had when he’d climbed off his motorcycle a half hour ago and asked to be put to work. 

“What’s next?” Steve taps his fist into his palm and then holds his hands out like waiting for someone to toss him a ball. 

“Could you take the fridge? Happy insisted he’d get it but I honestly think it might kill him.” 

“Sure thing.” Steve crouches down and picks the microfridge up like it’s an empty cardboard stage prop and not a seventy-five pound appliance. 

“Could ya at least make it look like it’s hard?” MJ says brashly, rolling her eyes. “You’re blowing your cover here.” 

“Oh.” Steve smiles a little nervously, looking around and seeming to notice for the first time that a number of Peter’s future dorm mates have taken more than a passing interest in their proceedings. He fumbles with the fridge a little, re-adjusting his grip and staggering slightly as if put off balance by its weight. “Better?” 

“You were an actor once, huh.” MJ replies flatly, but Steve has grown used to her jibes.

“Hardly what you’d call acting,” Steve merely snorts and then heads back inside, careful to heft his load as if it’s a struggle and slowing his pace. He passes Happy, huffing and puffing his way back to them, dragging a dolly behind him. His face is red and sweat has soaked through his loose black t-shirt. 

“I said I’d get that.” He says as he pauses by the side of the truck, bending forward and putting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He shakes his head, glancing at Steve’s retreating form. "I could've gotten that."

“Steve’s got it,” Peter shrugs like it’s no big deal, and tries to find one of the lighter boxes for Happy to take next. 

“And Steve can _get it_.” MJ chimes in from behind him, jumping down onto the sidewalk. Peter shoots her a look, affronted, and she smirks. “I’m kidding, don’t get your masculinity in a twist. You know I love you.” She picks up a duffel bag and slings it over her shoulder. 

“I’m sorry if I get—wait, what? You love me?” Peter turns around in place as she circles from behind him and heads up the path. He must not have heard that right, because they’ve never said that before. 

“Aren’t you two adorable,” Happy mutters, leaning against the side of the truck and opening up a bottle of water he’d grabbed from the cooler. 

“I’m giving my Saturday up to help you move heavy stuff in eighty-five degree weather, of course I do.” MJ replies like it’s a matter of course, and Peter knows he must be grinning like an absolute fool. “And I’ll remember this when I’m moving my things next weekend all by myself.” 

“Oh, come on, that’s not fair.” Peter grabs a box and goes after her. “I told you I would come back and you told me no way!” 

“Okay, that’s fine, I’ll just stay here and watch the truck, you two go.” Happy calls after them grumpily. 

Peter hurries to catch up with MJ, and they both crowd into the elevator with another few kids equally weighed down with boxes and bags. By floor four, however, they mercifully have the elevator to themselves. It’s only silent for a moment.

“I love you too.” Peter lets it spill out, keeping his eyes on the numbers as they light up floor five, floor six. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous saying it; she already said it first. He forces himself to look at her and MJ gives him that smile that he’s pretty sure only he gets to see. 

He leans over to kiss her, careful not to lose his grip on his box of books. The elevator doors ding open. MJ pulls away, her eyes blinking open, and she schools her face back into its usual nonchalance. 

As they walk down to the open door of his room, Peter catches sight of Steve at the other end of the hall by the red and white exit sign, ducking into the stairwell.

“Um, has Steve been using the stairs _this whole time_?” Peter asks Aunt May as he comes in, setting his box down onto one of the wooden desks with a thud. She’s sitting on his extra long twin mattress, surrounded by half-unpacked and half-unwrapped items, his shower caddy in her lap. 

“I dunno, I’ve been in here.” She shrugs, and then gestures between two different boxes. “See, I can tell which boxes you and Ned packed and which ones MJ did because…” She points to the one closest to her. “Why are your shower things in with your food, Pete?” 

“Cause they fit?” 

“Well you didn’t bag your shampoo and now your Pop Tarts have a nice new American Crew icing.” May holds up the blue rectangular box with two fingers, keeping the wet, dripping mess away from her. “Did we find and unpack the trash can, yet?” 

Peter looks around the messy room, but can’t find the brand new plastic bin they’d picked up from Target. 

“Find me a trash bag or a plastic bag or something, please.” She motions for him to give her something quick. MJ finds a bag first, of course, and hands it over. May wrinkles her nose in disgust as she trashes a few items that were lost to the Great Shampoo Explosion of 2019 and then tosses the bag to one of the only available free spaces on the cluttered floor. 

“Hello?” There’s a knock on the open door, and all three of them turn toward the sound. There’s another young guy standing in the entryway, presumably another student, even if he is dressed like a tax accountant. 

“Hey,” Peter greets him, stepping over a few boxes to get over to him and shake his offered hand. 

“I’m Harry Osborn.” He says with an assured smile, like the name should have meaning, but Peter doesn’t know what that could be. 

“Um, Peter. Peter Parker.” 

“Oh, I know. I’m your roommate, I specifically requested you.” He pushes his dark brown hair back off his forehead. 

“Me?” He’s surprised, and he doesn’t have to look behind him to know that both May and MJ probably have their eyebrows raised as well. 

“You were Stark’s protégé. Anyone who is anyone here knows who you are.”

“Oh…okay.” Peter has no idea what to say. “I’m not really…” 

“Nice to meet you, Harry.” May saves him, climbing up off the bed. “I’m Peter’s Aunt May.”

MJ doesn’t bother getting up, but gives Harry a small two-fingered salute from the desk chair she’s claimed as her spot. 

“MJ, the wholly realized, complex individual you will probably just refer to as Peter’s girlfriend,” she introduces herself, giving Harry the minimum amount of attention and picking up Peter’s orientation packet to flip through it. 

“We’re sorry about the mess, we’re a little disorganized today. Give us just a minute and we’ll get this all on Peter’s side. Do you have a preference, for a side?” May points to either side of the small double, like it really matters when they’re basically going to be living in each other’s laps. 

Harry, whoever he is, seems rich, so Peter doesn’t quite get why he wouldn’t have pulled a single. 

“You can take the window, if you want.” Peter offers, seeing as that might be the only differential. 

“Sure, thanks.” Harry nods, smiling. 

“Pardon me,” Steve’s voice comes from behind Harry, polite but loud enough to be heard. Harry shifts and Steve sidles in passed him, setting two more boxes down and dumping another trash bag from his shoulder, the one that’s clearly full of Peter’s haphazardly packed dress shoes, flip flops, and sneakers. “Happy’s just locked up the truck and he’s on his way up with one more box. This should be all of it, saving that small last load.” 

He wipes his hands together and then offers his right to Harry. 

“Steve. Pleasure to meet you.” Peter knows it must pain Steve not to be proper and provide his full name. Honestly, it probably doesn’t make a difference. The first name is enough for anyone to put two and two together. 

“Harry Osborn.” Peter can see Harry try to out-man Steve’s firm handshake, puffing up a little and straightening his back, his voice going a slight bit deeper. Peter carefully avoids looking at MJ, knowing if he does he’s going to laugh, but he can hear her small snort of derision behind him. 

“Harry’s my roommate,” Peter explains. Steve nods, about to respond, but Harry cuts him off. 

“And no need to hurry with all…this.” Harry adds, gesturing to the sprawling mess. “I’ve got movers coming, but not until 6pm. But I was in the library poking around, so I thought I’d take a break and come say hello.” 

“We’ll get this all sorted before then.” Peter promises. Steve crosses his arms, surveying the room like a man developing a strategy. He’s about to tell Steve that they’ve probably got it from here, not especially wanting to watch Captain America unpack his sock drawer, when May interrupts. 

“Steve, can you…?” She waves him into the room and he deftly winds his way toward her. Peter exchanges places with him, moving closer to the door so that they all can comfortably fit. May is pushing on the dresser, which isn’t budging an inch. “This just needs to go like, two inches that way so we can get to that plug and fit the fridge in this space here.” 

“Getting all this in here is going to be like piecing together a puzzle,” Steve comments. “No worries—I’m okay with puzzles, all those spatial relationships.”

_Understatement_, Peter thinks, remembering how Steve’s shield seems to defy all laws of gravity and physics. 

“Hell, I think this is about the size of Buck’s and my first place.” He twists at the waist to look around the room. “A bit smaller, but not by much. Which way?” He points to the dresser, and May thumbs toward the right. 

“Is your aunt dating Steve Rogers?” Harry nudges him conspiratorially, dropping his voice lower.

“What? No.” Happy scoffs from behind them, having arrived just in time to hear Harry’s question. “No.” He repeats, like he wants to make sure they really believe him. Peter stifles a smile behind his hand. Maybe with him off at school, Happy will finally get the nerve to ask May out. 

All three of them look toward May and Steve as she laughs airily at something he said, too quiet for them to hear. She casually rests an arm on his bicep. They’re angled toward each other, standing a little too close, and Peter has to scramble out of the way as Happy pushes into the room and drops the box on top of others with a loud thump and rattle. Both Steve and May snap toward him.

Harry smiles knowingly at Peter and he winks, making Peter think he may not be as posh and stuck up as he first seemed. 

“I’ll come back in a little while, Peter. Perhaps your family can join my father and me for dinner while my things are moved in? We have dining tickets for the 6pm seating at The Tasting Counter, but I’m sure for us, they’d be more than happy to adjust for a few more guests. I can have our chauffeur come fetch you?” 

Or he could be a rich prick. Jury’s out. 

“Thank you so much for the offer, but we have plans.” MJ cuts in, looking up for just one moment to shoot Harry a tight, fake smile, then going back to the orientation material. 

“Oh. Yeah, sorry. But thanks.” Peter tries to sound apologetic, but isn’t sure if he succeeds. 

“No worries,” Harry replies. “I’ll leave you to this then. I’ll see you later, Peter. Nice to meet you all.” He excuses himself, eyes hanging on Steve for a moment too long, then wanders off down the hallway. 

“He seems all right,” May comments carefully once Harry is out of earshot, though Peter can hear the cautious restraint in her voice. Ever blunt, MJ doesn’t hold back. 

“He seems like a dick.”

“He doesn’t seem so terrible.” Happy is far nicer in his judgment. “I’ve met far worse in my time.” 

Peter looks to Steve, expectant.

“Want to chime in on the new roomie?” He asks a bit snarkily, seeing as how everyone has an opinion. Steve chuckles, shaking his head as he leans against the dresser. 

“Give him a chance. A good first impression isn’t always easy to make, especially when you’re in a totally new place, with all new people. He was probably nervous.” It’s such a typical Steve response, measured and empathetic. 

May slaps him on the hip repeatedly in mock frustration. 

“Why do you have to be so nice!” 

“Geez, sorry. Forget it, he’s clearly a shithead. Can you apply for a new roommate?” Steve kids, causing May to hit him again, but this time he swivels out of her reach. She almost loses her balance and they both laugh as he catches her wrist and tips her back upright onto the edge of the bed. 

Peter throws a glance at Happy, wondering if maybe the man _should_ be concerned. He’s not sure if Steve’s actually meaning to flirt back, but he hasn’t seen May be so playful with a man since Uncle Ben. Happy certainly doesn’t look, well, happy. 

“We should go get something to eat before we start unpacking.” Happy suggests loudly. “You hungry, Pete? MJ?” He seems desperate so Peter gamely nods, and MJ plays along. 

“I’m starving,” Steve comments, hand patting his flat stomach. “But I should get going, I’ll grab something on the road.” 

“That’s too bad.” Happy isn't at all upset by this news, already trying to usher Steve toward the door. 

“Oh, come on, you can stay for another hour and get some real food.” May clearly isn't in such a hurry to get rid of him. 

“I gotta get back, got that thing coming up.”

“That thing?” May repeats, and Steve gives her a meaningful look. Her eyes widen in recognition. “Oh, right! That _thing_.”

“What thing is this?” Happy cuts in.

“Yeah, what thing?” Peter’s own curiosity is piqued. 

“Oh, um.” May brings her fingers to her mouth, hand curving around her chin, and looks at Steve. 

“It’s nothing.” Steve is a terrible liar. “It’s personal.” That one’s true. 

And it also actually kind of hurts. Peter tries not to let it show. 

“We’re all friends here.” MJ pipes up. It’s like she always knows what he’s too afraid to say himself. “You can tell us.” 

Three sets of eyes stare Steve down, waiting for an answer. May shrugs at him, and Peter can see Steve relent, his tense shoulders drooping. 

“It’s really nothing. I didn’t want to take focus from you guys when you’re off to school, is all.” For a man known for giving top notch speeches at the drop of a hat, Steve really doesn’t like all the attention on him when he’s not Cap, when he’s just Steve. 

“He’s starting classes at Hunter on Tuesday,” May blurts out, saving him from his own awkwardness. “For social work. Isn’t that great?” 

“That’s…great!” Peter slowly processes this, all the pieces clicking into place. Even before May keeps explaining, his aunt’s buddy-buddy behavior with Steve suddenly makes a lot more sense. 

“You know how I went there for my Bachelor’s, and I still know some people in admissions and in the program there…” 

Peter is nodding along now. May is a Children’s Services Supervisor at the Salvation Army, a social work-adjacent post that has put her in contact with a lot of people around the city. 

“May was nice enough to make some calls. My situation isn’t exactly…typical. I mean, I left high school in 1936, and even if I did have my degree, it’s not like it would mean much now.”

“But! We got everything sorted, and the school agreed to some special dispensations and arrangements, seeing as how Avenger-ing might sometimes get in the way of classes. So now…” 

“So…yeah. Now, long story short, I’m the world’s oldest freshman.” Steve’s joke lands a little flat. 

“And we have another reason to celebrate tonight. You should come to dinner, Steve, we’ll toast to everyone's success.” 

May looks to them all to back her up, and to his credit, Happy does try. 

“Yeah, come on and join us, Steve. It really is something to celebrate.” He nods toward the door, like Steve should follow. But then Happy goes a little too far, despite his best intentions. “Tony would’ve gotten a real kick out of it.” 

Peter immediately knows it’s a lost cause from the way Steve’s body language shifts, like he’s preparing to be hit, and his face absolutely shutters. It’s only a flicker, a momentary blip. When he speaks again his voice has lost its tentative edge and he’s no longer curling in on himself, trying to seem smaller. 

“I really do have to go. But thank you.” 

Steve edges past Happy toward the exit. Peter doesn’t say anything to stop him until he notices May jerking her head in Steve’s direction, her eyes forced wide and her mouth forming the word _go_.

“I’ll walk you out.” Peter spits out, and his clamber to follow knocks over the desk lamp that May had already set out on his desk. The bulb shatters. 

“I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” May assures him, waving him toward the door. “We’ll lock up and meet you downstairs in a minute, Pete. Go with Steve.” 

Peter grimaces at MJ in apology for leaving her alone with the adults, hops more gracefully over a stack of boxes, and joins Steve in the hallway. 

“So…” He starts, leading the way toward the elevator, tapping his fists together nervously as he walks. He doesn’t know why this suddenly feels so weird, but it’s probably because he isn’t sure what to say that’s not going to upset Steve again. “I guess we can exchange study tips?” 

“Ha, I guess we can.” Steve presses the down button and glances up at the display above the doors, showing the elevator is on its way up from the second floor. “You don’t really have to walk me out, Peter. You should go be with your family.” 

“No, I kinda want a second alone.”

“Everything okay?”

“I just wanted to thank you, for coming today, for helping out. Especially since it sounds like your plate is even more full than usual.” Peter sticks his hands in his back pockets just to stop them from flailing about. 

“I’m good for manual labor,” Steve smiles but Peter can tell it’s not really a joke. “Couldn’t leave May and Happy to lug all your junk around, could I?” 

The elevator doors open with a smooth swish and a burst of cold air, the car inexplicably air-conditioned much more than the hall. There are already four other people inside, two of whom recognize Steve if the way their eyes bulge out of their heads is any indication, so Peter suspends their conversation for the length of the ride down to the lobby. 

“This place is really nice,” Steve says as they step outside, both of them squinting in the bright late afternoon sunlight. They’ve ducked out a different door along the back of the building that leads to the small parking lot along Amherst Street. On normal days, it doesn’t look like it’s supposed to be used for visitors but today is a free for all. Some students are already milling about on the lawn in front of McCormick Hall next door, tossing a Frisbee, playing Corn Hole, or just sitting around and chatting. 

Steve tosses a glance back over his shoulder, looking up toward the upper floors of Maseeh. 

“Your room has a good view of the river.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty.” Peter agrees, but he’s not thinking about his view, or his roommate, or even MIT, at the moment. He hates how every time he thinks he’s getting closer to Steve, he’s reminded how very far apart they really are. He knows Steve has Nat, but Nat’s as weighed down and sad as Steve is. They can only lift each other up so much when they’re both trying not to sink themselves. 

He trails after Steve as they find his motorcycle, easily spotted in the small sea of trucks, vans, and high-class luxury sedans. 

Peter crosses his arms somewhat protectively across his mid-section, feeling unsure of himself, as Steve stops, and turns to face him. He half-sits, half-leans on his bike, and crosses his arms as well. 

“I know you were worried about coming here, leaving Queens, putting Spider-Man, the Avengers, all of that, on hold for a bit, but you made the right call. You’re gonna do great here, Peter. I’m sure of it.” Steve states, so confident that Peter is tempted to believe him. He pivots and leans against the motorcycle, mimicking Steve’s position.

“It’s a good thing you’re doing too, Steve. The, uh, the social work thing. You could’ve told me about it, you know.” It's a bit daring of him to say, but Steve doesn’t seem put out by it. 

“I didn’t want to steal your thunder. You’re 18, you’re heading off to college, you’re doing it right. It _should_ be all about you right now. It’s exciting, what you’ve got ahead of you.”

“Aren’t you excited? About going to school, I mean?” 

Steve rubs his beard, then takes his ball cap off and puts it back on, adjusting the way it sits on his forehead. 

“I…I don’t know if excitement’s the right word. But it’s clear that being Captain America isn’t enough right now. It’s not what people need. I think maybe I can be more help if I do this, if I can help people heal in other ways, to move on. I don’t know. It could be stupid. Nat thought I should at least try.” 

“This was Nat’s idea?” He can’t keep the note of surprise from his voice. 

“No, this insanity is on me,” Steve smiles a little, picking up on Peter’s disbelief. “But if I was going to divert any of my attention away from the Avengers, I wanted her go-ahead. It’s…I know you never really knew him, but Sam—Falcon?” Steve looks for some sign Peter remembers whom he’s talking about, so he nods, biting back his annoyance that Steve would think he’d forget. “Sam, he used to run group therapy down at the VA, back in DC. It really seemed to make a difference to a lot of people.”

“You already make a difference to a lot of people, Steve.” Peter assures him, but it’s clear Steve doesn’t really believe it. “You do. You’re Captain America, for god’s sake.” 

Steve pushes off the bike to stand upright, so Peter does too, again following his lead. 

“Speaking of Captain America, I should get going.” Steve takes off his ball cap and shoves it into the saddlebag, trading it for a pair of sunglasses. “Nat and I are getting briefed on a developing situation on the Latverian-Symkarian border at 0900, so there might be another mission before my first class on Tuesday.” Steve straddles his bike, laughing to himself. He ruffles his own hair where it’s been matted down by his hat. “When I have to say it aloud, I wonder what the hell I think I’m doing.” 

“I think Sam would be really proud of you,” Peter says. “And for what it’s worth I think you’ll be good at it.”

“Yeah?” Steve sounds almost hopeful, like Peter’s vote of confidence actually means something. Peter can’t see his eyes behind those dark sunglasses. 

“Well you’re kinda good at everything, so.” 

“Ha! I wish.” He kick starts his motorcycle, the engine roaring to life. It grabs the attention of a few passersby, who slow and turn their heads in Steve’s direction. “Try to have some fun, okay? I promised to keep an eye on Queens for you, and I will. Just focus on being here.” 

“Okay, Brooklyn.” Peter replies, trying the nickname on for size. It’s a pretty lame attempt at feigning closeness again, something he evidently hasn’t earned. He looks at Steve, sitting on that bike and just about to go, and he doesn’t know what to do. 

He holds out his hand for Steve to shake and Steve pauses, glancing down at it and then up at Peter, before taking it. 

Steve pulls him in to an awkward half hug. It’s probably the best he can manage while astride the Harley, but it’s enough. Peter smothers his smile against Steve’s shoulder. 

He’s a picture of cool and collected by the time Steve lets him go a few moments later.

“Call me if you need anything, all right?” Steve advises. “I can be here in under an hour on the Quinjet.” 

“Please don’t ever do that.” Peter’s mortified at the thought, imagining how he’d ever explain why the Avengers’ jet landed at MIT because of him. 

“Three and a half by bike.” Steve revs the engine. “And I figure if I go top speed I can run it in eleven.”

“Go home, you crazy person.” Peter shoves away from him, and Steve’s laugh is genuine. Steve gives him a quick salute and smoothly rolls out of his parking spot. He’s like god damned Tom Cruise in _Top Gun_ on that thing, too cool to be real. 

Happy and MJ stroll up behind him, both their gazes following Steve as well. They must have been waiting for him and Steve to say their good-byes before coming over. 

“Of course he doesn’t wear a helmet, wouldn’t want to mess up that perfect hair.” Happy mutters, and Peter snorts.

“_Happy._”

“Seriously, the only cool green-eyed monster is the Hulk. It’s not a good look.” MJ backs him up. Happy has the decency to look ashamed, sighing to himself. 

“Your aunt’s gonna be right out, she wanted to look at the laundry room before we went out to make sure we didn’t need to buy you different detergent.” Happy looks again in the direction Steve went, even though he’s long out of sight now, the purr of his motorcycle gone. “So, uh, that. I don’t really have to worry about that, right?”

“Huh?”

“Cap and May. That’s not a thing I should be concerned about.” 

“I don’t want to talk about this with you.” Happy looks so pathetic. He sighs. “But it looks like I’m talking about this with you. She was helping him with school, Hap.”

MJ falls in step beside him as they head back toward the front of the building to find his aunt. Happy seems somewhat assured by Peter’s words. 

“Right. Right. I didn’t think so. I mean, I know Cap’s not really into that, per se, but you never know.” 

“Into what?” Peter stops, confused. MJ quirks her head too, suddenly interested in the conversation. 

“Ladies.” He seems confused by Peter’s confusion. “Women. Gals. In general. I mean, I wouldn’t really know or care but since he and Tony were pretty serious for a minute there and I couldn't help but—” Happy stops speaking, evidently catching on far too late that Peter never before had a clue that Steve was anything but straight. 

“What are you saying, Happy?”

“I believe he’s saying that Cap and Iron Man used to bang.” MJ clarifies, looking positively gleeful at the news. “That’s fantastic.”

“But…Peggy.”

“It was the 1940s, Pete,” Happy replies, like the answer is obvious. “What else was he supposed to do.” 

“Or he could be bi,” MJ cuts in. “Bisexuality isn’t a myth, Happy, people _can_ like both.” 

“I didn’t say otherwise.”

“You kinda implied.”

“Let’s stop talking about Cap’s sex life please?” Peter exclaims. His head shouldn’t be spinning but it is, just a bit. Steve…and Mr. Stark. Tony. It explains so much. 

Sort of. 

“What about Pepper?” Peter can’t help but ask, re-opening the can of worms he’d just begged to close. 

“Oh, it was before that. After that? In between. Pepper and Tony broke up a lot.” 

“Steve was Stark’s trampoline.” MJ says, sounding a little sad about it. Both Happy and Peter look at her, clueless. “You know…Stark used him to bounce back. Rebound, guys.”

“Why couldn’t Pepper be the trampoline?” Peter demands, hackles rising. He doesn’t know why he’s so defensive. It’s not that he dislikes Pepper, but he hates the idea of Steve being reduced to someone’s…_trampoline._

“Stark was with Pepper first, right? That makes Steve the trampoline.” 

“No one is a trampoline.” Happy cuts them off as he spots May waiting for them in the courtyard. “Everyone stop saying trampoline.” 

“There you all are! Who’s hungry?” She greets them, standing up from where she was perched on one of the low brick walls by the stairs. She has a handful of pamphlets she must have gathered from somewhere inside the dorm, but thankfully she shoves them in her purse for now. “I talked to another parent in the laundry room, and she recommended this vegan—or maybe it was vegetarian—diner just a ways down on Mass Ave, doesn’t that sound perfect?” 

Peter agrees and smiles, but it feels fragile on his face. He no longer has much of an appetite. 

First school, now this. What else is Steve keeping from him?

*******

“Hey Steve. They’re already here.”

Natasha’s voice over the intercom stirs Steve from his thoughts, bringing him back to the present. He coughs to clear his throat, to keep his voice from cracking. It’s been awhile since he has spoken to anyone. 

“Be right down.” 

He runs the towel over his wet hair one more time and tosses it to his bed, just for now, then slowly crosses to his dresser. His muscles ache, and the four-inch long slash curving along his right rib cage pulls and twinges, his skin still in the process of knitting back together. The bruise around his neck looks angry, turning sickly green and yellow now over the original deep purple.

Pulling out the top drawer, Steve stands silently for too long, staring at his socks and underwear. It’s not about making a choice—everything is black—but he just…doesn’t want to do this. He wants to cloak the windows, turn off the lights, and get into bed. Sleep for hours, maybe days, until something or someone no longer gives him a choice in the matter. 

Well, he supposes. It’s not like he has a choice now. 

It’s Thanksgiving, and like Natasha said, everyone is already here. He should get down there and help. 

He’s just so _damn tired_. 

From the top of his dresser, Bucky stares out at him from a framed black and white photograph, one of the few originals he’d managed to get back from the Smithsonian. He keeps this one here, safe, and a less precious copy at his far less secure place in Brooklyn. His only picture of Peggy remains pasted into in his compass. He’d never managed to find a picture of his mother, much less his father; all of those are lost to time. 

“I know, Buck. Stop feeling sorry for myself.” Steve says, knowing exactly what Bucky would tell him if he were here, witnessing him standing morosely like it’s too much work to get dressed. 

Steve forces himself to slip on a pair of boxer-briefs, then he sits gingerly on the bed to pull on a pair of socks. _That’s a start, at least_, he thinks to himself.

In the period immediately following the Snap, there had been chaos. But it was the type of chaos that hit everyone, indiscriminately. As things settled, there had actually been a strange sort of calm as everyone regrouped, recalibrated. People came together in the aftermath of a tragedy, mourned what was lost and gathered the hope to move on. 

But now the pendulum is swinging back in the other direction. Opportunities are being exploited. Power vacuums left by the disappeared were filled. Seeds of unrest that were planted are now flowering. 

Carol says that other planets have been conquered, civilizations toppled, by those who saw the decimation as their chance to fulfill their destinies, to take _more_. The Skrulls, having only barely escaped extinction only twenty-five years before, are on the brink yet again. The Kree are invading neighboring galaxies, sparking war with both the Aakon and the Shi’ar Empire.

His current injuries are the result of a band of Epsiloni landing in Mexico only two days previous, marking the first alien invasion of Earth since the Snap. Carol warned it would not be the last. 

When Steve had said that the world didn’t need Captain America as much as it might need Steve Rogers, he’d been a fool. There will always be a fight and he will always be a soldier. 

Steve drags on a pair of jeans and an undershirt, but pauses again at the closet as he tries to decide which of his button-down shirts is most appropriate for his first real Thanksgiving celebration in years. Last year he and Nat hadn’t bothered; it’d been post-mission Indian takeout in a safe house somewhere in Dublin, utterly exhausted and half-slumped against each other on an uncomfortable couch as a _Friends_ rerun—that one with Brad Pitt—lulled them to sleep. The years before while on the run had been much the same. 

The last time he’d really done it up right was the year before Ultron. Despite Tony’s big suit blow-up of Christmas ’13, the collapse of SHIELD pulled him back in. His re-commitment to the team had driven Pepper out. So Tony hosted dinner at the Tower for them all, and it had been cozy and comfortable, and Steve had wound up in Tony’s bed yet again before the night was out. 

And he never really left it. At least not until Tony decided, first, to make Ultron, and then second, to finally do what Pepper wanted and leave the Avengers for good. He’d thought at first that Tony leaving him was an afterthought to his retirement, a decision made as impulsively as the one that brought them together, but in reality Tony had decided it was done before he went back to New York and created Vision. 

What Steve had thought was make-up sex, shared in the cramped, creaky bed of Clint and Laura’s guest room, had actually been a good-bye; Steve was just too stupid to know it at the time. 

He doesn’t pick out a shirt or a tie. He doesn’t even bother finding his shoes. In the end, he throws on a navy hoodie and pads down to the kitchen in his socks, his damp hair and beard only run through once haphazardly with his fingers. 

The number of surprised looks he gets when he walks into the room makes him feel a swell of shame, and his steps falter. But it’s too late to go back and change now. Everyone else is dressed nicely, including Nat. Even her hair, despite the five inches of red roots, is neatly plaited in a tight French braid. 

“Hey, Steve. How you doin’, man.” Rhodes greets him warmly enough, getting up from his seat and clapping him on the shoulder. He moves so smoothly with the biomechanical leg supports, you’d never guess he’d been injured. Steve hopes nothing ever happens to them, because he doesn’t know if anyone knows how to fix them besides Tony. 

“Nice to see you, Jim,” Steve replies. He’s been forcing himself to use the man’s first name, but it still feels like a fake or forced familiarity. He and Rhodes have never been close, and that hasn’t changed in the year since the Snap. That’s probably due to a lot of reasons, but one of them is Rhodes’ allegiance to Pepper, who sits beside him at the long dinner table that never gets used except on occasions like these. 

Pepper smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“Hey ya, Stevie,” May lifts onto her tip toes to peck him on the cheek, her hand running comfortingly down his arm to squeeze his elbow before dropping away. “How’s school going?” 

“I think Steve’s been adopted,” MJ teases, grabbing a carrot from the veggie tray on the kitchen counter and popping it into her mouth. Peter stands beside her, and he’s looking at him with barely-concealed worry in his eyes. May grabs some potholders and opens the stove, pulling out the vegetarian stuffing she’d brought with her from Queens. Happy closes the stove door for her as she plops the casserole dish onto the island alongside the rest of the spread. “You look like shit, man.”

Steve rubs his neck before he can stop himself, aware that even the hoodie can’t obscure the marks left from Epsiloni claws around his throat. 

“Yeah, uh, Nat and I had a bit of a rough one the other day,” Steve acknowledges, but tries to brush it off. “We came through it all right though.” His face hurts from the effort of smiling but he does it anyway. “What can I do to help here?” He makes a vague gesture around the kitchen. 

“I think everything’s about ready. You picked a good time to show up,” May tells him and Nat snorts.

“Typical man,” she teases. She’d been the one to insist he take it easy today, so he knows she doesn’t mean it. 

“Is it true that those creatures, the Epsiloni, were draining the life force from people?” Peter asks sounding equal parts curious and concerned. “That’s what I heard, that’s what they said on the news.” 

Steve glances at Nat, unsure how much they are at liberty to divulge. She’s been the main point person with Mack, director of the Avengers interfacing with the new director of SHIELD. It’s taken some getting used to, but once he’d made the decision to live in Brooklyn part-time and go back to school, it seemed more logical for Natasha to take charge officially. 

Natasha returns his glance and then turns to Peter, nodding. 

“That’s true. It’s some kind of psionic thing.” She picks up a bottle of already-open wine from the table and uncorks it. She pours herself a glass and tops off Pepper’s without being asked. “Steve got the brunt of it. He held most of them off until Quake and Yo-Yo could get there and help.”

“Couldn’t have done it without them,” Steve replies, eager to shift focus. “Or Nat.” He opens the fridge and reaches for a beer, but then stops. Toward the back on the top shelf, there’s a half-bottle of Thor’s Asgardian mead, long left behind. The warm amber liquid seems to shimmer slightly inside its blue glass bottle and Steve pulls it out. Thor hasn’t visited the compound since they he killed Thanos, so Steve highly doubts he’d mind. 

He grabs a glass from the cupboard and tips in most of the bottle. 

When he turns back around, Natasha raises her eyebrow at him from across the room. He ignores her, walking around the opposite side of the kitchen to claim a seat at the table. She doesn’t let him get away with it, coming right over to him and putting her hand on his shoulder. 

“Do you think that’s a good idea? You got hit pretty hard yesterday, Steve.” 

“It’s fine.” She doesn’t protest any further, only pats him on the shoulder once and lets it go. 

He does nurse the drink throughout dinner, though, the slow pace giving him merely a hint of a buzz. Natasha sits to his left, arm brushing against his in a way that keeps him grounded, and Peter to his right, throwing him anxious looks every now and again that Peter seems to think he doesn't notice. Pepper sits across from him and he manages to avoid looking at her directly for the entire meal. 

He doesn’t dislike her, and he doesn’t begrudge her a thing, but he’s…he’s not up for that today. They’ve not spoken seriously in any capacity since before Steve went on the run, and he knows at some point Tony is inevitably going to come up between them. But it can’t be tonight. He’s on empty. He has nothing to give. 

Steve forces himself to chime in on the conversation a few times, enough to make it seem like he’s present, but he’s really not. His head is a little fuzzy by the time dessert comes around, his glass of mead nearly empty. He should get up and get more, finish off what’s left. 

“Steve. How is being back at school? You never said.” From the way everyone is looking at him, it may not be the first time May asked the question in the past minute. 

“Oh. Oh, it’s fine. You know.” 

“You’re worse than a teenager. No, we don’t know! That’s why we asked.” May laughs lightly. She’s trying to engage, and Steve wants to meet her halfway. 

“It’s uh…” He looks up at the ceiling as he searches for the right words. “Attendance is spotty of course, but I’m managing.” 

“He’s passed every test and assignment,” Natasha states. “Flying colors.” 

“How would you…?” He starts to ask but Natasha’s lips quirk tellingly. 

“Spy, Steve. You really think I can’t get into your Blackboard?” 

Peter stops, forkful of pumpkin pie halfway to his mouth. 

“Please don’t hack my Canvas.” He leans forward and begs Natasha across Steve. 

“Don’t worry, your grades are nothing to sneeze at,” She replies matter of factly, licking whipped cream from her own fork. “And _you_ don’t even have an eidetic memory.” She points her fork at him, then Steve. “Steve here barely studies.” 

“Cheat,” Peter elbows him as he sits back in his seat. There is a lull in the conversation then, and Steve feels like it’s his fault. He pushes back his chair, the legs screeching loudly on the stamped concrete floor. 

“I’ll be right back.” 

“Where are you—” Natasha starts.

“Just to the kitchen, getting a refill,” He interrupts her quietly, and then lifts his voice to address the table. “Can I get anyone anything?”

Thankfully no one has any requests, so he simply goes to the fridge and empties the last dregs of Thor’s mead into his glass. He doesn’t know what to do with the bottle. Is is something special, or the Asgardian equivalent of a soda can? He contemplates throwing it in recycling but opts instead to set it on the counter, off to the side of the sink. 

“Hey, Steve.” Pepper’s voice comes from behind him. He swallows hard and turns to face her. “Could we talk for a minute?” 

_No._

He nods anyway. She glances toward the others, still seated around the table, and gestures for him to follow her. 

The hall grows darker the further they get from the warmth of the kitchen. She leads him into the office, the one that used to be his once upon a time, and turns on the desk lamp. 

“Pepper,” he starts, but she holds up a finger to stop him. She circles around the desk and picks up a large, flat, rectangular case that looks sort of like one of those folding card tables you’d get for the kid’s table at a dinner party. 

“I thought you might want this back.” Pepper unlatches both snaps and reaches inside. The vibranium sings with reverb as she accidentally bumps the shield while lifting it out. 

His mouth goes dry and words escape him. He wishes he weren’t drunk so he could fumble a better reaction than this. 

“No, no…I can’t. I mean, Tony wouldn’t…he didn’t want me to have that, Pepper.”

She shrugs, like either he’s wrong or it’s of no consequence. 

“SHIELD was, funnily enough, looking for it after the Snap, as they knew Tony was the last person to handle it. We opened all his safes, checked his storage facilities, even tried to trace records and scour surveillance footage to make sure he hadn’t destroyed it. Guess where we found it after all this time.” 

“Trunk of his car.” Steve guesses without thinking, and Pepper is taken aback. 

“Yes…how did you…?”

“Never was very careful with other people’s things. Other people in general.” The words come out harsher than he meant them to. He remembers he still has his drink in hand and buries his attention in it, taking a long sip rather than keep talking garbage about a dead man. 

“Maybe.” Pepper reluctantly lets him have that, clearly not spoiling for a fight here. “I think he just couldn’t bear the thought of locking it up. It was too…final.” 

Steve doesn’t reply this time, biting back bitter words. 

“I’d think he’d want you to have it back. I know he would.” Pepper holds the shield out to him, but he shakes his head. She sets it flat on the desk in front of her, and then leans the case it came in against the wall behind her. “That thing’s heavier than it looks.”

“In more ways than one.” Despite his efforts, that sentence slips out and lands heavy on the ground between them. He takes another drink and then gestures around the space. “I haven’t been in here since it was my office.” 

“I think it’s technically your office again.” Pepper points out. “Tony didn’t change anything in here, in the remodel. It’s pretty much untouched, as you left it.”

He has avoided coming in here ever since he and Natasha came back. Looking around, he discovers what Pepper’s saying is true. 

“Unlike Tony not to put his stamp on it.” He winces at his own behavior. That was catty. “And I think, technically, it’s Natasha’s now. But she likes to work in the common room. Offices are too…official.” 

He swirls the remaining liquid in his glass, watching it turn into a tiny whirlpool, a tempest in a jar.

He really wants this conversation to be over. He angles himself toward the windows, away from Pepper, but tilts his next sentence over his shoulder at her, at that shield taunting him from the desk. 

“You should take it back. Or put it in a museum somewhere.”

Pepper doesn’t reply, but he can hear her heels clicking closer to him, feel her body warmth get closer. She sets her left hand on his elbow; the engagement ring is still on her finger. 

“If Tony were here he would have given it back a long time ago. You need it.” 

“Need and want are different things.” Steve says quietly, stepping away from her. He crosses the room and sits down on the couch, putting distance between them again. “That Captain America has been gone for years. I carry a different shield now.”

His Wakandan shield, jet black and collapsible, offered as a gift from T’Challa out of respect and used for protection of the Earth, not something made from stolen resources in colonialist raids and forged by a weapons manufacturer profiting off the spoils of war. 

That’s what he tells himself when he finds himself longing for it. He does want to pick it up off that desk, feel the weight of it on his arm, the cool metal against his fingers, but that doesn’t feel like something he can do right now. 

“He’d hate to see you like this.”

Steve’s heads snaps up, temper flaring in his veins. 

“You don’t know a damn thing about it.” 

She doesn't look angry at his heated reply. More like resigned. He tamps down on his emotions as much as he can, drawing it all back in close where it has spilled loose. 

“I’m sorry, Pepper. I’m…I’m not myself today. I apologize.”

“It’s all right, Steve.” She’s much classier than him, he has to give her credit for that. “I think I’ll head back out.” 

Pepper doesn’t take the shield with her when she goes, closing the door gently behind her. 

He downs the last of his drink in one gulp, feeling it burn all the way down, and sets the glass on the floor. Then he leans his elbows on his knees and buries his head in his hands. 

He hears Pepper exchanging a few soft words with someone in the hallway. One set of footsteps, hers, fading with distance. Then the door sweeps open again, a sliver of cool, harsh fluorescent slicing sharply through the dim but warm glow of the lone lamp on the desk. 

Steve doesn’t look over; he knows it’s Peter from his step, from the way he breathes. 

“Cap?” He asks, advancing toward him very slowly like one would approach a frightened animal. A full glass of water appears in his line of vision. Steve only takes it after it becomes clear Peter’s not moving until he does. 

“I’m not very good company right now, Peter.” Steve mumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. 

The couch shifts, springs squeaking, as Peter lowers his weight beside him. 

“I’ll just sit here for awhile if that’s cool.” 

Steve might have objected if the alcohol wasn’t taking its toll, finally pushing him over to slow and drowsy. He’s irresponsible for drinking this stuff, especially at a time like this. Especially in front of Peter. He’s supposed to be setting a good example. 

That’s the last thing he remembers thinking. The next thing he knows, he’s squinting painfully against the onslaught of the morning sun streaming in through the office windows. Someone carefully laid him out on the couch, tucked a pillow behind his head, and covered him with a blanket during the night. 

His shield is still here, but Peter is gone.


	3. 2020

“One more inch in any direction, Natasha…” Steve half-whispers, somewhere between angry and terrified. Peter can’t tell which emotion's winning out, but he can feel Steve’s heart tripping wildly against his own chest as Steve carries him into the small infirmary. It hasn’t slowed a beat since the end of the battle when Steve first lifted him up and got him to the safety of the QuinJet. 

“I got it. I know.” Natasha replies as she comes in closely behind them. As his face is buried against Steve’s shoulder, he can’t see her, but she sounds more irked than concerned. “Just put him down.” 

The overhead lights flicker on, unforgiving flickering fluorescents, and one of the exhaust fans kicks on somewhere in the distance. There are no windows to the outside world, but there’s one big plate glass viewing window out to the darkened hallway, to the left of the exit door. 

Peter winces as he slowly disentangles from Steve’s hold and lowers his aching body onto the table. The stainless steel shocks ice cold against his back but the way pain shoots sharp and searing, straight up from hip to shoulder, is a far worse feeling. 

“Oh _damn_ that really hurts,” he groans, clutching his right side as he moves. At least the blood has slowed, no longer trickling warm and wet between his fingers. Steve’s hand lingers in comfort on his left shoulder, a reassuring weight. “I can’t believe I got beat up by a massive head with robot arms and legs. I mean…what even was that thing?”

“That was M.O.D.O.K.” Natasha states, and sets a large black case on the counter opposite them. 

“You say that like it’s an explanation.” Peter retorts through gritted teeth. She unsnaps the lid of the case and begins efficiently unpacking metal and plastic pieces that will evidently be some kind of medical device--the Cradle, she calls it--though Peter doesn’t quite understand what it is or how it functions. All Steve said was that it would repair the gashes that that _thing_ had swiped into his side, tearing nearly clean through from front to back but quite luckily missing his major organs.

“Here, wait a second.” Steve stops him from lying down completely and Peter grunts. “Get this off before, or else you’re gonna have to get back up.” He tugs at the sleeve of the Spider-Man uniform and even though it takes Peter a moment to process what Steve’s saying, he eventually gets it. 

He gasps as he shrugs the suit from his shoulders and starts the arduous task of peeling it down to his waist, the material sticking to his skin along his torso due to all of the dried blood. 

“We can cut it off, if that’s hurting too much to—” Steve starts, and Peter adamantly shakes his head and shoves the uniform down to his hips with a sharp intake of breath. He bites his lip to stifle his cry as the skin tears afresh and the wounds start to bleed all over again. 

Natasha pauses in her work and looks at him with a touch of surprise, then quirks her eyebrow and mouth like she’s a little impressed with his fortitude.

“Okay then. Lie back.” She shrugs, and starts setting up the transportable Cradle above him, two arms clicking together that will first scan the length of his body for injuries. Steve watches her closely, and Peter suspects that Steve’s taking this as on-the-fly training; next time they won’t need to rely on Natasha to assemble the machine. 

Natasha then starts building the repair module, brow furrowing as she enters necessary data into the keypad. “This would sure be a lot easier if Banner were here,” she mutters, more to herself than anyone else. 

“He’s doing another round of Gamma tests,” Steve reminds her anyway, then turns back to Pete. With the suit bunched down around his waist, the pads of Steve’s leather gloves are rough against Peter’s now bare shoulder, but his fingers are gentle. With his other hand, he gestures to the torn, stained remains of Peter’s red and blue uniform. “We can repair the suit, Pete, I promise.” Steve assures him more softly, voice dropping down just between them. 

Peter resists upgrades and new models because this is the last suit that Tony made for him before The Snap. Happy had given it to him a month after he’d returned to Earth, having found it locked away in Tony’s workshop. It’s nice of Steve to remember, though Peter doesn’t know how Steve figures they’ll patch it up. It’s not like darning a hole in a pair of socks or ironing a patch onto a pair of jeans—both of which he’s sure Steve can do because Steve never throws anything away without wearing it out well beyond saving. 

Peter had heard that folks who lived through the Great Depression were like that, but that’s hard to square with Steve, who still _looks_ like a Millennial. The thought of Steve sitting in his apartment on his couch, thimble and needle and thread, stitching up torn socks, makes Peter smile. 

He giggles a little and then hisses as a pain claps through him like lightning. 

“You okay?” Steve is leaning over him, blue eyes wide and full of concern. 

“Fine, fine,” Peter replies tightly. Maybe he’s been better, but he’s definitely been worse. And Natasha had assured him that this Cradle-thingy will have him as good as new in no time. Steve doesn’t look reassured so he tries for a joke. “Pretty crappy first trip to Paris, though.” 

“Well, last time I was here it was still held by the Nazis, so…” Steve comments offhandedly, trailing off at the end like he’s only realizing that fact now. 

“Way to one-up me with the who-had-it-worse, Cap, _geez_,” Peter cracks, another laugh sending another ripple of pain through his body because apparently he’s a glutton for punishment.

“Try to stay still, Pete.” Natasha hits a few more buttons and begins the scan, the arms whirring to life with soft beeps and a faint green glow that sweeps over him slowly from head to toe and then back up again. Peter doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Natasha nods at something she sees onscreen, like she has the readout she needs, and then he exhales in a rush and gasps in a desperate breath of air. “Okay, this will only take about fifteen minutes, maybe twenty at most, then we can send you back for spring semester in factory condition.” 

“All this and I don’t even get cool scars?” Peter frowns. “Chicks dig scars.” 

“Glory lasts forever,” Steve adds immediately. 

Natasha stops what she’s doing and looks at them both, eyes narrowing. 

“_It’s from a movie_,” Steve tells her pointedly, a smirk playing at his lips. She rolls her eyes at him fondly, like it’s some inside joke that Peter’s not privy to.

“Hilarious.” She starts adding some attachments to the Cradle’s arms to convert the machine from evaluation and diagnosis mode into clean and repair mode. Bruce had told him the portable version was far less user-friendly than the anchored version, but Natasha seems to be managing it rather well. “You really must be catching up if you’re spending your precious free time watching early 2000’s comedy flops.”

“We had a Keanu marathon the day after Christmas,” Peter explains, smiling up at Steve unguardedly, then lifting his head as much as he safely can in order to look at Natasha. “Remember, we got that bad storm? We were snowbound at Steve's. Practically every place shut down, and the trains stopped running.” 

“You realize that you literally swing from buildings, right, you don’t need the subway to get home?” Natasha asks, wry as ever.

Peter and Steve exchange glances. It’s not like they hadn’t known that or thought of that, but it somehow seemed better, easier, to stay put in Steve’s tiny, cozy apartment, bundle up in blankets—Steve has the best blankets—eat leftover pizza, and watch _Bill and Ted_ and _Point Break_ and all of _The Matrix_ series despite Peter’s impassioned warnings that they grew progressively worse with each one.

“That Keanu got snapped really proves once and for all that Thanos was totally indiscriminate in his plan,” Peter says instead of answering Natasha’s legitimate question. “Keanu was too pure for this world.” 

Natasha hesitates, hand freezing in the middle of clicking the last attachment into place. 

“Glad you can joke about it.” She says tightly, and the pain Peter feels isn’t from his injury but it is no less real. Peter sneaks a look at Steve and finds him frowning, his gaze averted toward the ground. 

“I’m sorry, Natasha. I didn’t mean to, not like that. I was just—”

“No, it’s okay. Really.” She pauses, meeting his concerned stare dead on. “I was a big Keanu fan, that's all.” Natasha’s tone is so dry and affectless that even though Peter assumes she’s kidding, he’s not actually sure. 

Steve sets his hand back on Peter’s shoulder, silently telling him not to worry about it. 

“All right, so this is going to sting a bit,” Natasha punches a few more buttons and the machine clicks back to life, a different set of heads lighting up. Two sweeping green lasers set to work on sanitizing his wounds, and nano-technology starting to re-build his skin. Steve takes a step back, giving the machine clearance. 

“A bit?” Peter yelps, reaching out instinctively and grabbing on to Steve’s forearm, stopping Steve in his tracks as Peter’s fingers scramble for purchase on the thick, scaly chainmail of his uniform. Steve obligingly returns to Peter’s side and Peter exchanges Steve’s arm for his hand, clasping tightly to try and relieve some of the pressure. Peter looks from where his skin is knitting back together up to Steve, who is watching the machine do its careful business. “This isn’t how it feels when your skin does this on its own, is it?”

“I haven’t used the Cradle, but I would imagine so?” Steve guesses, hand unconsciously going up toward the gash above his right eyebrow that he’d received in the battle. It’s already partially closed. “It feels hot and the skin pulls tight and it’s itchy as hell, like a normal wound feels as it heals, but amped up and almost all at once.” 

“Think I’m getting a little of that now,” Peter replies, grimacing. This is unpleasant. But he supposes it’s better to have that happen quickly and get it over and done with, rather than stretch it out over weeks. As another bonus, he also won’t have to explain the near hole in his side to MJ and pretend not to notice that look of terror and concern she tries so hard to hide whenever he’s injured. 

_MJ._

“Fuck!” Peter exclaims, forgetting himself and starting to sit up. Steve practically slams him back down to the table and Natasha hits the kill switch, stopping the Cradle immediately. 

“Holy shit, Peter,” Steve gasps, holding him down. “You can’t be doing that, not with the machine going – are you okay?” 

“_Language_,” Natasha admonishes them both slyly and Steve gives her another one of those looks that leaves Peter entirely out of the loop. “But seriously, Pete, no moving or we’ll need to restrain you. This thing is literally creating new tissue, so you can’t be bouncing around. You with me on this?”

“Yeah, yes. Sorry. I just…um, I didn’t expect to be part of this fight and I kinda had plans tonight with MJ and, oh hell, she’s gonna kill me.” 

“I think you’re underestimating MJ; she hardly seems the type to waste her anger on a missed date because you were saving Paris from a terrorist attack,” Natasha snorts, confident in her appraisal of the situation. She has given MJ her stamp of approval many times over. 

Beside him, Steve sighs, shaking his head at Natasha. 

“What, Rogers.”

“It’s their one year anniversary,” Steve comments. He lifts an eyebrow at Peter. “Right?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Peter stumbles, not having expected Steve to know why today was important. “Sorta. Of our first official date, anyway.”

“Then you’re on your own, kid.” Natasha re-starts the machine and Peter gasps as the pain abruptly begins again. 

“I’m sorry, Peter, I shouldn’t have called you in on this one.” Steve glances at the clock on the wall, and Peter can practically see him mentally calculating that if it’s three in the morning in Paris, it’s eight p.m. in New York and Peter’s date night is well and screwed. “I knew this was coming up, you told me about all your plans. I should have remembered.”

“It’s my relationship, Cap, you shouldn’t have to keep tabs,” Peter replies, but Steve’s shoulders still slump. “And you guys needed me. This M.O.D.O.T. dude—”

“M.O.D.O.K.,” Natasha corrects automatically.

“M.O.D.O.K., whatever, you and Natasha couldn’t have taken him down yourselves. Not without Hulk or Thor, and not with Rhodey roped into that thing with Mack in Russia right now. I’m technically an Avenger, right? Why _shouldn’t_ you call me in?” 

“Nat and I could’ve managed.”

“Like you managed the Epsiloni?” Peter fires back, though it loses some of its righteous power when he’s flat on his back and trying not to move a muscle. But seeing Steve after that attack really rattled him; Steve had been beaten bloody and drained so low, even worse than after Thanos. Seeing him utterly exhausted and depressed left Peter worried for weeks after Thanksgiving. He’d forced Steve to video chat with him nearly every night despite the fact they both were studying for finals, and he hadn’t backed off until he saw the color finally creeping back into Steve’s cheeks. 

Steve’s face goes pale again now, his mouth settling into a deep frown. 

“It’s not your job to worry about me, it’s my job to worry about you.” He counters, steamrolling onward when Peter opens his mouth to protest. “And I shouldn’t have pulled you away from your winter break. You should be going on dates like a normal teenager, not fighting psychotic supercomputers.”

“But Steve, I’m not a normal—”

Steve is already getting up, leaving Peter with another squeeze on the shoulder. 

“I’ll go call MJ and explain what happened, so she’s not worrying where you are, okay?” 

“Just grab my phone, I can call her myself,” Peter starts to reach out and Natasha _tsks_ at him sharply. 

“_No moving_. And no cell phones around the Cradle either, they interfere with the tech. Out, Steve.” She jerks her head toward the door.

“Oh that’s reassuring, that this thing that is currently recreating part of my body can be taken down by a Stark phone. It’s like being on a plane and knowing that someone who refuses to use airplane mode is gonna make all the pilot’s controls go hooey.” 

“That one’s unlikely,” Natasha replies. Peter turns his head to the side to look back toward Steve and finds him already ducking out the door, headed down the dark hallway of the SHIELD bunker to make a call from a safe distance. 

Natasha’s gaze follows him too, her sarcastic façade slipping a little. 

“It may not seem like it but he’s doing better,” Natasha says quietly, as if reading his mind. “School helps. Stopping bad guys helps. _You_ help.” 

“I can do more, Natasha,” Peter replies, seeing her expression and suddenly feeling as concerned about her as he is about Steve. “You and Steve don’t have to do this all alone.”

“We’re not alone,” Natasha smiles faintly. “We have each other.” She focuses her attention back on the Cradle, checking his progress. 

He lets silence fall between them as the holes in his abdomen slowly grow smaller, the new skin pink and raw. He’ll be able to see and feel where the damage was for a while, but it’s a hell of a lot better than the alternative. 

“I don’t have much to entertain you,” Natasha laments after a few minutes pass and she seems convinced everything is working exactly as it should. She walks across the room to the desk of the researcher who’s usually here during business hours and rifles through their drawers. She comes back into his eye line with a magazine in one hand and a lab report in the other. “_Vogue_ or a report on the digestive enzymes of Flerken?” 

“Oh, _Vogue_, definitely.” Peter grins, and Natasha plops down sideways in a rolling office chair, legs thrown over the armrest, and begins reading to him in flawless French. He barely understands a word of it, but he doesn’t much care. 

She’s in the middle of what he divines to be an article praising Blake Lively for starting a new fashion line despite caring for two children alone after the Snap took Ryan Reynolds, when Steve returns. 

“I got ahold of MJ and I filled her in. She’d already seen reports on the news, so she appreciated the call.” Steve walks back over to Peter’s side. “I asked Happy to go pick her up. She’ll be here first thing in the morning.” 

“What?” Peter starts to sit up again but Steve is already there, expectant, holding him down. Peter huffs at being so predictable. 

“It’s your anniversary. Your first one. That’s a big deal. What’s more romantic than Paris?” Steve says as if it’s all that simple, looking down at him with a small smile. “Simmons is already helping me find a hotel, the whole nine yards—by the time you’re done here, everything will be set.” 

“What, Jemma’s your PA now?” Natasha asks, finally looking up at him from her magazine. 

“No, she’s a romantic-at-heart, helping a friend help out a friend.” Steve scowls slightly, stepping toward the door. Natasha slowly spins the rolling chair to follow his path, keeping him in her line of sight. “And Jemma is married to Fitz so you can get that matchmaking glint out of your eye, Romanoff.” 

“I have a little too much on my plate to be worried about finding you a date, Rogers.” He raises an eyebrow and she smirks. 

“Like MJ’s not gonna know you’re behind this, not me?” Peter points out. 

“This whole thing was my fault, let me make it up to you guys, okay? Tell MJ I’m sorry.” Steve is out the door once more, not about to stay and argue. He knows Peter can’t follow him and there’s nothing he can do. Peter lets out an exasperated groan as Steve disappears around a corner. 

“Oh my god, how do you deal with him? _Steve Rogers_ is so. Damn. Frustrating.” He complains, emphasizing Steve’s name like it’s a swear word. Natasha laughs loudly, the sound seeming to burst unbidden from her chest. He lifts his head slightly off the table to look at her in confusion, unfiltered emotion from her being such a rarity. “What?”

“Nothing. You sound just like Tony.” 

“Yeah. Well.” Peter thunks his head back onto the table. “Beginning to see his point of view.” 

“That you are.” Natasha retorts with a smirk, and returns to her magazine.

*******

Steve nudges the door open slowly, feeling resistance behind it as he pushes on the rough-hewn wooden planks. The knob is broken, hanging loose at a forty-five degree angle, and he inwardly notes to fix it before he leaves.

Crumpled wrappers and other discarded trash hide the carpet from view and he sweeps his feet through the detritus as he moves, thankful that he decided to wear his heavy, thick-soled boots as he clears a path in front of the door. He navigates his way down the cramped, narrow hallway and into the small living room. The tiny kitchen is through a crooked doorway to the left, and there’s a loft over part of the living room, big enough for a bed and not much else. He can’t see much beyond the top of the ladder, but he assumes that Thor must be sleeping because he’s not down below. 

The place smells dank, like stale beer and mildew. The only light slants in through the slats of the closed shutters and dust dances in the harsh, narrow beams. The kitchen sink is overflowing with dirty dishes, and the counter is covered in empty take-out containers and spoiled leftovers from boxed or canned food. Where you get take-out around here, Steve can’t imagine, but there’s a lot about New Asgard and its people that Steve doesn’t understand. 

For instance, how they could leave their king alone to his troubles when it was clear to anyone with a set of eyes that he needed help now more than ever. 

Not that Steve should cast stones. This is only the fourth time he has visited Thor in two years, and each time Thor has been progressively worse. Some social worker he’s gonna make, when he’s not even able to help his own friends. 

“Thor?” Steve calls out, somewhat loudly but not too much, because he does need to wake Thor up, but does not want startle him too terribly. 

He’s the one who winds up startled, however, as the bathroom door thumps open and Thor stumbles out, can of beer in hand.

“Captain?” Thor mumbles, clearly confused at finding the man in his home, standing in between the kitchen and the living room like he had every right to invite himself inside. Steve is starting to regret his decision when Thor basically shrugs and plops down on the couch. A cloud of dust and who knows what else poofs into the air from the battered cushions as he lands, the springs squeaking. A video game controller falls off the armrest onto the floor with a loud clatter, but Thor ignores it. 

He finishes his beer, crushes the can, and throws it in the general direction of the kitchen, narrowly missing Steve’s head. 

“I am surprised to see you, old friend.” Thor’s eyebrows furrow in puzzlement, as if he hasn’t a clue what brought Steve to his doorstep. “What news?”

“No news, actually. I wanted to see you, see how you are doing.” 

Thor scoffs.

“As you can see, I am fine.” He gestures around the room and then back to himself. He starts to say something else, but a loud belch cuts off his words. He pounds a fist to his sternum and coughs. “Perfectly fine.” 

“I don’t know that I agree, Thor,” Steve replies timidly, not sure what tack to take here but not about to go along with Thor’s deluded evaluation of the situation. His carefully evaluating gaze catches on the kitchen; something just moved underneath the mess on the counter, and it wasn’t Miek. He makes a move toward the door, gesturing for Thor to join him. “What do you say we take a walk, maybe get some fresh air and talk—”

Steve stops as he glances back and finds that Thor has fallen asleep—or maybe passed out—his head tilted back and his mouth wide open in a snore. 

“All right then.” Steve steps over a few piles of trash and dirty clothes to get to the couch. Then he clears off the other cushions and carefully eases Thor down on his side, propping his head up with the cleanest throw pillow he can find. 

As soon as he’s sure Thor is safe from choking on his own vomit, he looks over the small cottage again. It’s going to be a hard slog whipping this back into livable shape. 

However, after what he’d seen on his last visit, he had come prepared, so he ducks back outside and grabs his largest suitcase from the trunk of the rental car. He unpacks the stockpile of cleaning supplies he brought with him—he wasn’t sure if Asgardians cleaned with magic like something out of _Mary Poppins_ or if they had to use good old fashioned elbow grease like everyone else, and he’d been too embarrassed to ask—and sets to work. 

He tackles the kitchen first, as he assumes that is the source of most of the weird smells pervading the house. He never finds what was moving and can only hope that whatever it was made its escape once it had been disturbed. Then he starts in on Thor’s loft bedroom, figuring that it would help the most if Thor actually had a clean place to sleep tonight. 

By the time Thor stirs, hours later, Steve’s got the place relatively decent and he’s wringing out a second load of laundry in the newly sparkling kitchen sink. The first batch is already hanging on the line in the sunshine outside, reminding him of the way they used to string up their wash across the alleys and over fire escapes in Brooklyn.

“What is that wretched aroma?” Thor mumbles as he pushes himself up to sit, pillow marks creasing his cheek and half his hair more tangled and snarled than usual. 

“That’d be Pine-Sol,” Steve replies, ducking out of the kitchen, the overhead on the door quite low. He’s a little amused that Thor finds _that_ smell terrible but not the pungent mix of scents that filled the air only a few hours ago. “Or maybe the Clorox. Don't worry, I propped open all the windows. It’ll air out.”

“So that is why it is so bright in here.” Thor reaches up above the couch blindly, feeling for the curtains and then clumsily tugging them closed. He rubs his forehead as he winces. 

“Here.” Steve crosses toward him, so much easier to do now that the floor is clear, and hands Thor a tall glass of ice-cold water in a clean, spotless glass. Thor takes it, his nose wrinkling in disgust at anything other than beer. He tips the glass forward, sloshing water to the carpet as he uses that hand to point to the darkened TV screen.

“Did you turn off the video game? I had not saved my play.” Thor’s frown slips quickly into a disgruntled pout. “I have no wish to start again.” 

“I’m sorry, Thor, I think I saved it, but I might’ve messed that up,” Steve admits. “I’ve never played before.”

“Fantastic. Korg will be missions ahead now,” Thor mutters angrily, going to set the water down on the coffee table without bothering to drink it. Steve stops him, guiding the glass gently back toward his mouth. 

“Drink,” he instructs, tilting it upward to Thor’s lips with a finger along its bottom. He used to have to do this with Bucky after his nights on the town, when he’d groan his greeting at the morning and Steve would hand him an _I told you so_ along with two aspirin. Steve pushes aside the memory, not in any position to linger on the painful thought of his best friend, and focuses back on Thor. “It will help.” 

“With what,” Thor wonders as soon as he swallows it all down, handing the glass back to Steve like a kid who just reluctantly took his medicine. 

“It could also be good to take a shower,” Steve suggests, pointing toward the bathroom. That cleaning job had been the roughest. But Steve had come well prepared for anything, and now it’s like brand new, and Thor’s stocked back up with soap and shampoo and razors for months out. Steve even found a pair of scissors if Thor might go so far as to let him trim the matted mess on his head. 

Cleaning up Thor or his house isn’t a long-term solution. Or even a short-term one, really. He isn’t so naïve as to think that. It won’t make Thor magically feel better, But at least it’s something concrete Steve can do to help. 

“Are you implying that I smell, Rogers?”

“Just facing facts.” He loops a hand under Thor’s arm and helps him to stand. Thor grunts and groans, but obligingly gets to his feet. “Why don’t you take a nice, long, hot one; it’ll make you feel human again.”

“I am no human.”

“You know what I mean,” Steve waves him off, nudging him toward the bathroom and then turning to the kitchen himself. “You clean up a little and I’ll get something started for dinner that’s not pizza.”

“Nothing is wrong with pizza, pizza is great,” Thor says under his breath, sounding offended, but he does go into the bathroom and shut the door. A moment later, Steve can hear the shower turn on, so he takes the win. 

He had prepped and packed some options for meals on ice along with his other supplies, so Steve has his best approximation of Sarah Rogers' hearty beef stew simmering on the stove when Thor emerges from the shower. He stands in the living room, dripping wet and looking lost. He's clad only in a pair of boxers and a red and black plaid flannel bathrobe that's tied loosely around his waist, around the bulge of his growing beer belly, and Steve is shocked despite himself. 

It’s not judgment, though—it’s confusion. He didn’t think that demigods lost their peak physical condition, no matter what they actually did or didn’t do. He simply assumed that the rules of human biology wouldn’t apply to them. 

But it seems the rules _do_ apply, and Thor’s diet of pizza and beer is starting to show. Steve knows that Thor isn't eating regularly and when he does, he's eating crap, so apart from the weight gain it probably isn't doing much for his mental stability either. Bucky used to get like that, during the Depression when money was tight and food was scarce at the Barnes' home—all easily triggered mood swings, unpredictable irritability, and irrational responses. His mother always said never to underestimate the power of a good meal. If Steve can get a few squares in Thor over the next few days, that could help quite a bit with getting him in a better headspace to talk seriously about what’s going on.

“Would you like me to trim your hair up for you?” Steve hopes that Thor will take it as a friendly offer of help and not a commentary on his lack of physical upkeep. “I used to trim Bucky’s hair all the time, back in the day.” 

Steve can feel his face involuntarily tighten as he mentions Bucky aloud; he’s just around the corners of all his thoughts today, it seems. 

Thor runs a hand through his wet hair—or tries to, only to get his fingers caught in the tangle. Steve would have offered to simply brush it, but it’s too far gone; to try to drag a comb through it would probably end up tearing Thor’s scalp and ripping his hair. Cutting it is really the only solution. 

“Can do your beard too,” Steve adds, running his fingers over his own chin. “I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”

“You are indeed pulling it off well, Captain,” Thor comments, actually smiling a little slyly before lowering himself to the couch. The compliment feels weird, Thor’s voice oddly sexual and flirty. The tone drops with his next words, though, so Steve doesn’t dwell on it. “But I am fine. I have no need of a barber.” 

“You sure?” Steve jerks a thumb over his shoulder to the wooden chair he’d grabbed from the kitchen, a clean towel draped over its back. He picks up the shears and opens and closes them a few times like he’s considering them. “It would only take a few minutes. I kinda dug the freshly shorn look you were rocking when you got back.” 

That’s something Peter would say, Steve thinks to himself, and he feels his smile go easy and honest again. Thor eyes him critically, like he knows full well he’s being plied with flattery but not sure that he doesn’t like it anyway. 

“That haircut was not by choice,” Thor states, surprisingly sitting up a little straighter, putting his hands on his bare knees. “Nevertheless…I was…‘rocking it,’ as you say.” 

“So…how about it?” Steve picks up the towel and gestures to the chair. Thor wavers for a moment but then gives in. That had gone much easier than Steve expected. 

Steve wraps the towel around Thor to keep the hair from falling into his robe and over his skin. He lets his hands rest for a moment on Thor’s broad shoulders, giving them a squeeze that he hopes is comforting. 

Then he sets to work, completing the task as quickly as he can. It’s relatively easy to do, since he has to cut pretty damn short to get rid of the mess and that doesn’t necessarily take as much skill. 

He trims Thor’s beard more carefully, intent on keeping it even along his jawline. 

He’s concentrating hard, and he doesn’t notice right away when a few tears start streaking down Thor’s face. The second he does, he quickly stops, setting aside the scissors. His hands then automatically move to cradle the sides of Thor’s face. 

“Thor, what’s wrong? Did I…?” Steve worries for a second that he may have hurt Thor’s skin somehow, but even before he checks he already knows that’s not it. 

“I'm sorry,” Thor starts, but the words only serve to open the floodgates. He begins to cry freely, a choked sob caught in his throat. 

Steve’s heart breaks open at the sight and sound of Thor openly falling apart. He instinctively pulls Thor toward him, letting the other man bury his face against his shoulder. He runs a hand over Thor’s newly cut hair; the short strands are soft under his fingertips. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s all right,” Steve says even though he knows that’s a lie. Guilt surges up within him like a bitter taste in his mouth, because he and Nat are responsible for this. They both knew Thor wasn’t doing well and they’d left him to his pain; let him drown in the sea of it. 

Thor had lost his father, his home, half of his people, his best friend, his brother, all in quick succession, his whole world collapsing. A world that he believed, as king, was his duty to protect. It’s not a contest, but of all of them he had certainly lost the most. Yet he’d still been the one left alone to mourn that loss. 

“I’m sorry, I should’ve been here.” Steve presses the words to Thor’s temple the way his mother used to when he was ill and terrified of what lay ahead, clinging to her to feel safe. “I’m sorry. I’m here now. I’m here.” 

Thor’s body wracks in his embrace. He no longer tries to keep anything back, swallow anything down, and Steve holds him tightly as he lets it go. Steve’s own tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he blinks them away and steels himself. 

This isn’t about him. 

Thor’s sobs eventually subside and Steve eases him back onto the chair, making sure he has his balance before letting him go. 

“Steve, I…” Thor whispers, and Steve is caught off guard. Thor rarely—perhaps never—calls him by his first name. It’s always ‘Captain’ or ‘Rogers’. His eyes snap to Thor’s face and he’s bewildered by the strange look he finds there.

Then Thor lunges forward, gracelessly and sudden, and Thor’s mouth is on his, hot, wet, and demanding. 

Steve tenses in surprise, gasping in a way that inadvertently allows Thor’s tongue passed his lips. This was the very last thing he expected in the moment. He quickly gets his hands to Thor’s shoulders and pushes as kindly but firmly as he can, even as Thor is desperately trying to pull him closer. 

“Thor, _Thor_, no.” It’s hard to get the words out against the insistent press of Thor’s lips. He struggles a bit to get Thor back, the other man much stronger, but in the end he succeeds, Thor resting his weight back on the chair rather than Steve’s arms. “That’s not…” Steve sighs, taking in the stricken look on Thor’s face. “This isn’t what you actually want right now.” 

“In Asgard we would often find comfort in our brothers-in-arms,” Thor states, his words slightly slurring like he’s still drunk. He’s not, but he’s probably so emotionally overwhelmed that he may as well be impaired. His fingers twist in Steve’s shirt, tugging at the thin fabric of the worn gray Henley. Steve covers Thor’s hands with his own, squeezing them comfortingly. 

“That’s not exactly tradition here. Not anymore, anyway,” Steve concedes, knowing to say that it never happened at all would be a lie. He’d even read something once about soldiers doing that for morale in Ancient Greece, but he’s not sure if that’s accurate. 

“Did not you and Stark?” Thor counters bluntly, brow furrowing more deeply than before.

“That was…that was different. Something else.” Steve stumbles, taken aback by Thor putting that out there like that. Thor is reaching for him again, like the admission of his and Tony’s sexual activities was permission to re-engage, and Steve gently stops him. “That was something…_more_.”

Thor averts his eyes, his shoulders slumping. 

“Thor, you don’t really want that with me.” Steve tries to keep his voice even and soft as he inwardly scrambles to figure out how he should handle this. Words like avoidance and transference run through his mind, all the vocabulary and concepts they’d learned about in class that he’s not quite sure what to do with yet, or if they even apply here in any way, shape, or form. There’s a reason he’s in school and not out doing this for real yet. 

“Don’t I?” Thor asks under his breath, more to himself, so Steve continues on as if he hadn’t heard it.

“I’d be an ass to take advantage of you like that. I would never do that to you.” 

“You would not be taking advantage of me as if I were some fair, naïve maiden.” Thor retorts sharply, lifting his head in defiance. 

“I don’t think that’s something you should say—”

“I know what I offer. I merely wish to feel something else for a moment, however brief. And I wish to feel it with you, my worthy comrade.”

“I’m sorry, buddy,” Steve shakes his head. “I know you don’t want to sit with it, but the only way out is through. I can’t be your detour, or your distraction.” 

“That is unfortunate,” Thor heaves a deep breath, frowning. He does honestly sound let down. “From overhearing your encounters with Stark, I came to suspect that you are rather talented in that respect.” 

“And _on that note_.” Steve clambers up and away from Thor, his face heating. But Thor cracks a genuine smile for the first time since Steve arrived, so at least the embarrassment is worthwhile. “Dinner is probably about ready. We should get some real food in you.” 

Steve ducks into the kitchen as fast as he can, needing to put some distance between himself and the demigod. He and Thor have always got on like a house on fire, and there was no one else he fit better with on the battlefield, but he never thought of Thor in a sexual way. He was too dazzled by Tony to consider anyone else. For a brief moment he wonders if everything would’ve been easier if it’d been Thor he fell for, back when. If that would've been better, if they wouldn't have all wound up here.

But it hadn't been Thor. It was Tony, and here they are. Can't change that now. 

For some reason he feels _guilty_, like maybe he’d unknowingly given Thor some sign of interest, engaged in flirtation without recognizing it for what it was.

Tony did always tease that even the most unsubtle of advances tended to go over his head.

As he takes the pot of stew from the stove and turns off the burner, Steve reminds himself that he probably did nothing at all. Thor is lonely and depressed, cut off from the rest of the world. If Steve hadn’t had Natasha and Peter over the past two years, he’d surely be in no better shape. 

He ladles up two bowls and goes back into the living room. Thor still sits on the chair, wrapped in a towel, shorn hair at his feet. 

Since his hands are full, Steve nudges Thor’s calf with his foot and nods his head toward the couch, since Thor doesn’t have a table to sit at properly. 

“We can watch something while we eat, if you want.” At Peter’s suggestion, he’s been watching _The Great British Bake Off_ whenever he has some down time, and that seems like the type of comforting, safe show that might work for this situation. He fires up the PS4 and connects to Netflix, the once unfamiliar routine now rote, having done it many times at Peter’s by now. He may not play video games, but this he can do. “I’ll leave this signed in under my account so you can use it whenever you want—I guess all the kids share these days.”

It’s technically illegal, but Steve’s willing to bend the rules a little if it means Thor has something else to do besides play _Fortnite_. 

Thor sits down directly beside him on the couch rather than leaving space, leg pressed comfortably against his. 

“Thank you. For this kindness. I apologize for my unwanted advance.”

“Already forgotten,” Steve assures him, patting him on the knee to show there are no hard feelings. 

“How long can you stay?” Thor’s question is vulnerable and open-ended. He doesn’t ask how long Steve planned on staying, or when he has to leave, and the phrasing isn’t lost on him. 

“As long as you want, pal,” Steve smiles, immediately regretting his own choice of words, and hits play on the first episode.

That night as Thor’s deep, rumbling snores echo down from the loft, Steve lies on the couch in the darkness and stares up at the ceiling. It’s only a matter of time before he has to go back to New York, and he knows Thor’s never going to come with him.

*******

“I’m going to fail.” Peter paces up and down the length of their dorm room. The space is small, so it’s more like two steps in one direction and two steps back, and this only makes him feel even more frantic.

From his place lounging on his bed, Harry looks at him again over the top of his battered copy of _Atlas Shrugged_, arching one eyebrow. The light from his bedside lamp casts sharp shadows across the planes of his face, reminding Peter that now that the sun’s gone down, he should probably flip on the overhead light if he’s going to continue to study. He’ll nod off if it gets too dim; he’s learned this from experience while studying at Steve's over spring break. Steve finds his accidental study naps much more amusing than MJ does.

“For the hundredth time, you are not going to fail, Parker.” Harry’s never that concerned about his own grades, and even if he was, he’s done with that for the weekend. He even took his tie off, down to just slacks and a maroon sweater, which is practically casual for him. “You’re always welcome to some of my Adderall if you really want to focus, my guy can always get me more.”

“_No_,” Peter replies sharply, not entertaining the idea for a second. He’s not even sure that drugs would work. His tolerance isn’t quite what Steve’s is, but even with just alcohol it does take more than normal to build up a buzz. 

“Xanax? I’m sure I have some floating around here somewhere.” Peter ignores him in favor of getting back to the freak out already in progress. 

“Seriously, what was I thinking, taking the maximum number of units in my second semester? Why did no one tell me this was a terrible idea? What the hell are advisors for if not this exact situation?” Feeling too hot, he strips off his red hoodie and throws it onto the pile of dirty laundry on his side of the room, then straightens out his black t-shirt so it’s back down around his hips. 

“You got me.” Harry shrugs, settling back into his pillows like he’s oh-so comfortable. “You’re the one who came in with early sophomore standing, almost all your GIR done, and then absolutely killed your diagnostics. You could be sitting pretty, but no, you’re taking shit courses like _Good Intentions Good Outcomes_ or whatever the hell that was.”

“That was last semester,” Peter reminds him. That certainly had been something—learning about “the ethical frameworks and standards for social engagement and intervention” and examining “case studies based on conundrums faced while trying to make the world a better place”, or whatever. To his mortification, they’d actually discussed the Sokovia Accords. He’d had to sit silently and watch footage of himself fighting in Berlin and keep his trap shut as his fellow classmates dissected Steve and Tony like they weren’t even real people with real feelings and real problems, but merely diametrically opposed mouthpieces for differing ideologies. 

Right now he’s taking a discovery subject about the history of ancient environments; one of the sites of study is Svalbard, Norway. He’s been tempted to ask Steve to convince Thor to show up unannounced to class one day and take them all to school on what Svalbard must have really been like thousands of years ago. He’d automatically pass if he brought a Norse god in for a guest lecture, right?

Steve’s in New Asgard again now, his third trip in as many months. Steve said he’d take him next time he went, in the summer, because even after all this time he still hasn’t properly met Thor. 

But from what Steve reports, Thor is hardly himself. 

That’s why Steve is going so often; Peter has to remind himself of this occasionally. It’s not that he’s losing time of his own with Steve, really, since he’s in school and Steve’s as busy as hell in New York. They wouldn’t be seeing each other much anyway even if Steve stayed in town. 

But when Steve’s with Thor, he seems to disappear off the map. No calls, no texts, not even a perfunctory check-in email. 

Peter digs his phone out of his pocket, but the only new texts waiting for him are from Ned, updating him on the video game design work he’s doing at RIT. 

The disappointment he feels over that in turn makes him feel guilty; Ned is his best friend. He should be glad to hear from him, and instead he’s irked that there’s no word from Steve. 

“You’re worse than a jealous girlfriend with that thing,” Harry comments, dropping his Ayn Rand to his pillows and sitting up, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. Peter shoves his phone away quickly. “Does MJ know she’s second-string to Captain America?”

“That’s not funny, Harry.” Peter has had to say this frequently enough that it’s lost some of its edge; he only sounds tired now, most of the time. “I can’t force you to like MJ, okay, but you can’t be disrespecting—”

“Who says I don’t like her?” Harry interrupts, affecting an overdramatic affronted air. “She really won me over the last time she visited and lectured me about how my father’s ‘death grip on the pharmaceutical patent lobby’ was destroying America.” He pushes off the thin mattress, springs squeaking, and is in Peter’s space before Peter can even think to move. 

Harry grabs the Stark phone from Peter’s front jeans pocket, ignoring Peter’s yelps about personal boundaries. The screen is still active from when Peter last checked it, so Harry doesn’t even need to bother with a password or thumbprint before tapping the text message icon. 

He types something quickly, fires it off, and tosses the phone back before Peter even realizes what’s happening. Sometimes Peter doubts has superpowers at all, when he just sits there flummoxed and lets these things play out, like an idiot. 

“You did not just booty call Steve.” Peter stares at the two words taunting him in the tiny blue bubble: _u up?_ His mouth flaps open and closed helplessly for a few moments before he finds the words to spit at his roommate. “What is wrong with you, Osborn?” 

Harry flops back onto his bed with cultivated indifference, stretching out and reclaiming his book. 

Peter types out a follow-up: _Sry, autofill. Supposed to be u ok?_ He’s about to hit send when he realizes that blaming the autofill would mean that he types “u up?” often enough for the phone to predict that’s what he was going for, and that somehow seems even more embarrassing. 

He simply sends _u ok?_ instead, hoping Steve will take the two texts together as one message. He stares at the screen, waiting for a response, but nothing comes. It is late in Sweden after all—the middle of the night, now that he does the math—so Steve might not actually _be_ up, ironically. 

“Great, now instead of worrying about my Chem exam, I’ll be wondering if Steve thinks I’m hitting on him. Perfect. That’s great, Harry. Thanks.” 

“You can’t worry about both?” Harry teases, smirking. 

“You’re a jerk.”

“But I’m the jerk who has good news for your academically tormented soul.” He takes a folded envelope out of the back of his book, where it had apparently been tucked between the last few pages this whole time. “I was going to wait until your study binge was over—you know, as not to distract you, the kind roommate and friend that I am—but since you seem to be on the verge of a monumental breakdown anyway…here.” He stands up halfway, holding the envelope out for Peter to grab. “I’ve been authorized to make you an offer for the summer.”

“Authorized by who to offer me what?” Peter’s brow wrinkles as he reaches out for the white envelope and unfolds it, the black, circular Oscorp logo highly visible in the upper left hand corner. 

“The great and powerful Norman,” Harry snorts, “would like you to come work as a paid intern in R & D, starting at the end of May.” 

Peter opens the envelope slowly, buying some time. Harry’s feelings toward his father vary from day to day, spinning from grudging admiration to outright disdain to hurt and resentment. Today the wheel seems to have landed on disdain. 

“Me, work at Oscorp?” 

“You’re on track to graduate early, so he’s trying to get his hooks in now. He clearly would like to get you away from Potts while there’s still a chance. I told him not to bother, since you enjoy being a superhero groupie _way_ too much to leave SI, but…here we are.” Harry moves from the bed to the chair and kicks his feet up on his desk, leaning back and tucking his hands behind his head. 

“Harry, this is amazing, really, but I…I don’t know…” Peter unfolds the letter and scans it slowly, attention alighting on key words like _prestigious_ and _paid_ and _future advancement_. The position would be amazing for his résumé but he already owes so much to Pepper. He wouldn’t even be attending MIT without the financial help of the Stark Scholarship, and to go to work for one of their competitors seemed tacky and ungrateful. 

“You really should see what else is out there,” Harry points out, knowing exactly why Peter is hedging. He kicks off the desk and plants his feet firmly on the ground, leaning forward and resting his hands on his knees like he’s about to get serious. “Putting all your eggs in one corporate basket is inadvisable. What if something happens with Stark Industries? Tony’s not around anymore.”

“Pepper—”

“Is a great CEO but she’s not an inventor. Without Stark creating the next big thing, where’s SI even going? They’re eventually going to run out of all the back projects Stark left unfinished, and then what? And if you’re just seen as Pepper Potts' poor little pet project, you’ll be screwed if you ever decide you want to work elsewhere.”

Peter looks back down at the letter. 

“It’s only one summer. Three months. And you’ll be working with me, so honestly, do you really want to turn it down?” Harry smiles widely, running a hand over his dark, close cropped hair. 

“This is really awesome, Harry, thank you,” Peter folds the letter back into the envelope and holds it up with a small nod of gratitude. “I’ll think about it.”

“‘_I’ll think about it_’, he says.” Harry rolls his eyes, getting up and flopping back onto his bed, this time in a wide, lazy sprawl. “Ugh. Everyone else on this campus would kill to get that offer, Parker.”

“But I myself am strange and unusual,” Peter replies off-handedly, his thoughts hung up on the letter. Harry narrows his eyes at him, not recognizing the quote and thinking him weird. That happens a lot. It used to happen a lot with Steve too, at first, but at least Steve would always be genuinely curious, pleased to learn something new. Harry’s usually annoyed, as he’s not much for popular culture. His side of the room is covered in astronomy charts and theories and models of atoms, nary a band or movie poster in sight. “Nevermind. It’s _Beetlejuice_.” 

“Oh, I’ve actually seen that one, once. A long time ago.”

“It’s one of MJ’s favorites.”

“That tracks.” Harry leaves his book laying open across his chest and tucks his hands behind his head, elbows out. “So now that you have an internship on lockdown for the summer—that is yours whether you pass this chem test or not—are we really going to spend our Friday night in the dorm, studying, or are we gonna go out?”

“I’m studying, I don’t know what you’re doing.” Peter sits down at his own desk, flipping to the next page of his chemistry textbook. “And you’re free to do whatever, you don’t have to stay here.”

“But then who would keep you company,” Harry retorts, his concern facetious. “What kind of gentleman would I be to leave you in your hour of need.” 

“Thank you for your noble sacrifice,” Peter says sarcastically. He sets the envelope from Oscorp on his desk and puts his phone on top of it, ready to forget about it all for a while. But he can’t help tapping on the screen at least one more time to see if Steve replied. 

Nothing. 

“You’re ridiculous.” Harry throws his paperback at Peter, and Peter unthinkingly catches it out of the air with one hand before it can strike him. Figures his instincts would kick in now; someday he'll really get complete control of this but that's apparently not today. He registers Harry’s look of surprise, but decides not to acknowledge it. He hopes Harry will follow his lead, and thankfully he does. “You know, Cap is probably just enjoying hanging out with someone his own age for once.”

“Thor is 1,500 years old.” Peter twists in his chair to face Harry fully, scowling at him. “That’s like fourteen times Steve’s age.” 

“And what would be more reasonable? Dating someone only twice your age?” Harry’s grin slides into a knowing smirk. Peter feels his face heat at the implication but resists replying, as that only gives credence to Harry’s embarrassing insinuations and spurs him on even more. They've been down this road before. Harry tries a different tack, one that Peter finds equally annoying. “I bet you anything that he and Thor are fucking. Hammer and shield, pounding it out.”

“Harry.” He sighs in exasperation and ignores the twinge in his gut as Harry’s crude words paint a picture in his mind. 

“Two hot superheroes in cramped quarters? Look at the two of them. _Something_ is happening to keep Steve going back, that’s all I’m saying.” 

“We’ve been sharing this tiny room for months, yet I somehow manage to keep my hands off of you, don’t I?” Peter points out, tossing Harry's book back at him, and Harry makes an unimpressed noise.

“Small wonder. You know you want this.”

“I want you to shut up, maybe.”

“Can you even _imagine_ what Cap is like in bed? I bet Thor’s the only one who could hold him down. Well, except Hulk, and that seems a little too much—”

“Holy shit, Harry—I’m asking you to shut up for real now. Please go back to reading your Objectivist bullshit and stop perving on my friends!” Peter’s not joking. He doesn’t know why Harry is belaboring this stuff tonight, but it’s not amusing in the slightest. His roommate at least has the grace to look chagrined, falling quiet and ducking back behind his book.

He only stays silent for a moment though, always needing to have the god damned last word. 

“You’re really only friends with Steve,” Harry mutters. Peter grabs his pillow from his bed and whips it at Harry’s head nearly as hard as he can.

*******

Steve ducks, then dives over the strewn debris and rolls behind the crushed remains of a Dodge Charger, its formerly shiny black paint now under a thick layer of gray-brown cement dust.

“Natasha. Have you got eyes on Corruptor?” He brings his hand to the comm and tries to check in while he’s got a moment to breathe. 

“Negative.” Natasha’s voice in his ear is clipped and he knows she’s more stressed than she’s letting on. Squinting in the bright August sunlight, he tries to get a visual on her but can’t. He needs to find a better vantage point on the entire square. “I lost him somewhere around City Hall. There are too many people; he’s turning everyone he touches.”

“What’s your 20?” She doesn’t seem to hear, her attention drawn back to the fight.

“Where is the order to evacuate? We need to set up a perimeter here, what the hell are the cops doing?”

“I think he got to the uniforms on the ground, they’re under his control—we’re gonna have to clear the area ourselves.” 

“God damn it,” Natasha swears, frustration bleeding through. This mission has been a cluster from word go. All Corruptor has to do is touch someone’s skin, and his psychoactive chemical renders their inhibitions useless, their will power void. With every passing moment, he’s turning more and more people across downtown Toronto into violent, amoral zombies ready to do his bidding. “There’s no way to tell enemies from friendlies until they’re on you. I don’t want to hurt these people, Steve.”

“Neither do I, but there’s not much we can do besides use non-lethal force whenever possible. Pull your punches as much as you can without putting yourself at risk. Rhodes, you copy?” 

“Setting phasers to stun, copy that.” Rhodes’ voice echoes tinny in Cap’s earpiece as War Machine swoops in overhead, joining the fray. Steve’s never been so glad to see him. “No chance Carol’s on her way to join us, is there? Looks like we could really use a boost.”

“I wasn’t able to reach her, she’s out of range,” Natasha grunts over the comms, clearly engaging with some of the affected citizenry at the moment. “Rhodes, he has to touch someone, skin-to-skin, to do his thing, so you’re going to have to take this asshole down. You’re the only one here wrapped up tighter than a tin can.”

“We got a bead on him?”

“He was heading northeast toward Dundas Square when I lost him, he’s clearly trying to stick to more highly trafficked areas. Look for the guy with blue skin and a big purple cape—he should be easy to spot.”

“Then how’d you lose him?” Rhodes teases.

“I’m sorry, would you like to come down here and punch some Canadians?” Natasha pants, exasperated. 

“And they say they’re such a nice people.”

As Rhodes flies out of sight, disappearing behind the Romanesque clock tower of Old City Hall, Steve finally catches sight of Natasha’s flaming red hair across the cement expanse of the closed ice rink, as she grapples with a small horde by the large letters of the Toronto sign. Its middle ‘o’ is in crumbles, the ‘r’ half demolished. 

He starts fighting his way toward her, beginning to think that their best bet is to get back to the Quinjet and find full body covering so they can go help Rhodes capture this guy. 

“We should have looped Pete in,” Natasha greets him breathlessly as he knocks out a man who was heading straight for her. She uses her Widow’s Bite on the next one who comes at them, and even though Steve’s never been one for high-tech gadgets, he wishes he had some kind of taser of his own right now. “He would’ve been better for this than us, he’s already covered from head-to-toe.”

“Hindsight’s 20/20. We didn’t know that’s how the toxin worked until we got here.” Steve replies as they both grab some cover behind the base of one of the concrete arches. 

“All the more reason to cover our bases.”

“He’s got his internship to worry about, Natasha”

“Funny how everyone else gets to have a life outside of this except me.” 

“What?” Steve is so caught off guard by Natasha’s snappish words that he turns to face her, abandoning his defense. Four zombie-fied people are on him immediately, and he’s pretty sure one of them is hitting him with a hockey stick. How on brand, he thinks, vaguely, as he grabs it and snaps it in two, throwing it aside. 

He’s about to turn back to Natasha when someone flies by overhead, a glistening blur of gold and the bright blue-white of repulsors on full blast. For one brilliant, inexplicable moment he thinks it’s Tony, but then he quickly realizes how wrong he is. The accents on the suit are deep royal blue, not hot rod red, and the form is sleek and feminine, with an attachment on its back almost like wings. 

He stares up at the cloudless blue summer sky, wondering if he’s seeing things.

His distraction costs him. 

The next thing he knows, something or someone strikes him hard across the back of the head. He briefly feels his cheek hit rough concrete, and then nothing. 

When he comes to, he’s already back in the Quinjet, laying on a cot. He’s disoriented for a moment but when it all comes into focus, Natasha is leaning over him, cracking an ice pack violently in order to activate it.

“Did we get him?” He mumbles, barely understandable. He rubs his bruised jaw and then his cheek, feeling the sting of a huge brush burn as his fingertips prod the tender flesh. 

“Rhodes did. _You_ got knocked out cold by a twelve year old girl,” she comments dryly upon realizing he’s awake, and holds out the ice pack for him to take. 

“Twelve year old zombie girl, you mean,” Steve corrects hoarsely. He coughs, clearing his throat. “And you should know I never underestimate girls, Natasha. Neither do you, usually.” 

“I don’t. But I felt like making fun of you enough to compromise my principles.” She retorts with a faint smile that quickly fades. “You have a nasty bump but you’ll be fine in no time.”

Steve sits up, wincing, and brings the ice to the back of his head. That’s what he gets for ditching the helmet, as uncomfortable as that thing is. 

“Before I went down…I thought I saw…” Steve hesitates, thinking he imagined it, but Natasha pointedly glances off to her right, toward the cockpit. Pepper Potts is sitting beside Rhodes. 

She gets up at Natasha’s look and makes her way back to them. Pepper’s a little unsteady on her feet, the QuinJet hardly the smooth ride of Stark’s private jets. She’s out of the suit, dressed in skin-tight black Under Armour and her long red hair tied back in a low ponytail. She looks like she just got back from a brisk run in the park. Steve wonders if her Iron Woman is nano-tech like Tony’s last version, the kind that appeared and reappeared in a dazzling flow like water, or a more old-fashioned model that fit together piece by piece like the world’s shiniest jigsaw puzzle. 

“Hi, Steve. Glad to see you’re all right.” Pepper’s eyes are bright, two spots of color high on her cheeks. He recognizes that familiar buzz of nervous energy all over her, left over from the battle with nowhere to go. Tony got that way too. 

“Not that I’m not glad to see you too, but…” Steve stares at her, puzzled, still trying to figure this all out. She luckily doesn’t question the premise that he’s glad to see her, and thankfully fills in the blanks for him. 

“An anniversary present from Tony.” Steve doesn’t ask which date they’d celebrate, given they’d broken up and gotten back together so many times it had to be hard to keep track. “We keep finding little surprises on every hard drive we manage to crack. Designs for Rescue were on one of them.”

“Rescue?”

“Tony’s label for the project. You could say it’s my call sign, I suppose.”

“Superhero name, it’s your superhero name!” Rhodes shouts back from the cockpit, and Pepper smiles. 

“Rhodey’s been helping me train, get the hang of piloting this thing. It’s surprisingly intuitive, once you get going.” 

Steve nods. He knows; he took a few of Tony’s models out on test runs, once upon a time. He’d decided he much preferred Tony giving him a lift to having one of his own. He always felt better with both feet on the ground. 

“Well, Rescue…thank you for the assist today,” Steve says, making sure to sound as gracious and earnest as he can. He really doesn’t know how today would have played out had she not shown up. Does this mean Pepper is an Avenger now? He sneaks a questioning look at Natasha; it’s her call, not his. 

“Don’t worry,” Pepper states, and pats his shoulder. “I don’t plan on making it a regular thing.” She lets go and heads back up toward Rhodes. Steve sags, coloring slightly in embarrassment. He must be so transparent. 

The Quinjet falls quiet then, the only sound the purr of the engines. Natasha sits down in one of the nearby jump seats and crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Listen…” Natasha starts, her voice dropping down lower so only he can hear. She doesn’t look straight at him, which is unusual for her. “About what I said out there.”

“Oh. Yes…that.” Steve re-frames from Pepper to Natasha, remembering the last, troubling thing she said to him before his knockout prematurely ended that battlefield conversation. 

“Just let me say—”

“If you need to take a step away, Nat, you really should. You don’t have to do this. If you feel you have to devote more time to the search, believe me, I understand. Probably more than anyone else could. You were there for me through everything with Bucky and I want to be there for you, help you find Clint.” Steve assures her quickly, trying to head her off at the pass. “If I’ve made you feel like you have to shoulder this alone, I’m truly sorry. I can do better, _be_ better.” 

“You make it really damn hard to apologize, Rogers.” She meets his gaze this time, arching her eyebrow. 

Steve starts to protest, but stops when her eyebrow quirks even higher. 

She leans forward then, resting her elbows on her knees. He mimics her movement, so they’re bent toward one another, face-to-face across the bay of the Quinjet. 

“I was out of line. I know you're in this with me. You’re following up with Thor, checking in with Bruce, keeping up with Peter, you’re with me on every mission, and you’re _getting a degree_ in social work so you can better help everyone _else_ cope with what’s happened.”

“I’m sticking my fingers in the holes in the dam, Nat. You’re the one trying to actually undo the damage.”

“Getting reports day after day, week after week, that we have no leads while chaos spreads across the universe isn’t undoing anything, Steve. Hell, I’m supposedly a ‘master spy’ and I can’t even track down my own best friend.” 

“You’re being too hard on yourself.”

“Am I?” Natasha asks. “I’m going nowhere while everyone else is moving on, and I can’t even bring myself to care about being left behind.”

“You think I’m moving on?” Steve is surprised, having thought it more than evident to her that they’re in entirely the same position. 

“Well, aren’t you?” She replies, frank as ever. “You’re building a new life, Steve. You have school, your friendship with Thor, and whatever this thing is with Peter—”

“Wait—what?”

“I don’t know how you keep going when you’ve lost everything yet _again_.”

Steve disregards her strange comment about Peter and focuses on the more important task of getting Natasha back on an even keel, if not feeling better.

“You’ve lost it all before too. You know better than anyone. You keep going because it’s all you can do.” 

“I didn’t lose it all, Steve. I made a conscious choice to change my life and defect to SHIELD.”

“I meant when you were taken by the Red Room in the first place. They stole everything from you, Nat, and yet when the opportunity came to make that choice, take that chance, you took it. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever known.” 

“Coming from Captain America that’s a high compliment.” Natasha deflects, not really taking him seriously.

“That’s coming from Steve Rogers,” he corrects, staring steadily at her to make sure she gets it this time. He means it with every fiber of his being. 

Natasha looks back at him for a long moment and then nods. 

He nods too, and then sighs. He casts his gaze down to a spot on the floor, unfocused, thinking for a careful moment before speaking again. 

“I wake up every morning with this weight on my chest, pressing down so hard I can barely move. I still go to text Sam something at least once a week before I catch myself. I talk to Bucky even though I know he’s not there. I even called Tony’s phone the other day just to listen to his voicemail greeting.” 

He glances toward the front of the Quinjet; he’s pretty sure they can’t hear him. Pepper hasn’t canceled Tony’s number, and he’s constantly afraid one day she’ll finally do it. 

“I keep half-expecting Vision to walk through the wall and scare the living daylights outta me, and sometimes I swear I hear Wanda humming that damn song, you know the one her brother liked? I see ghosts of them everywhere and sometimes I can’t _breathe_ with the pain of it.” 

He shakes himself from his thoughts and lifts his eyes to meet Natasha’s again. 

“So it may seem like I’ve got this handled, but it’s all an act.”

“You’re getting better at that, Steve. You almost had me fooled.” 

“That’s only proof that you’re off your game,” Steve tries for a little levity and fails. “I…I know it’s hypocritical to keep telling everyone else to move on. But it helps—some _do_ move on. That’s not me, though.”

“Not us.” Natasha corrects, echoing their words from long ago.

“Not us.” Steve repeats. 

“Coming up on The Raft,” Rhodes calls back from the cockpit. Natasha stands and goes to the front of the Quinjet, reaching between Rhodes and Pepper to punch in a code and hit a few buttons to prep the containment unit for transfer. Rhodes glances up at her as she flips a lever. “I still don’t know why I couldn’t have flown him here with the suit and dropped him off like yesterday’s garbage. It would’ve been a lot quicker.”

“Too much risk in the transfer, given his abilities. It's better to get him contained where he can’t touch anyone,” Natasha looks at the security feed where Corruptor sits in his metal and glass pod. It’s like the one SHIELD used in Berlin to imprison Bucky and it still makes Steve uneasy to see it. 

The Raft rises out of the water and the landing bay opens slowly. He hates coming here. Since The Snap, there have been a few occasions to visit, and each time Secretary Ross is sure to remind him that he could easily have been in one of these cells for the rest of his life, had things gone down differently. 

Ross is waiting for them when they walk down the gangway to the landing dock, looking none too pleased. He holds out a bulky satellite phone to Steve as he approaches.

“Captain Rogers, there's a phone call for you.” His mouth is set in a grim line as he hands the sat phone to Steve. “And I’d appreciate if you kept in mind that I’m the Secretary of State, not your damn secretary.”

Steve doesn’t reply, knowing better than to engage. He saves his fights with Ross for the bigger issues, having wasted too much energy railing pointlessly against him in the past. At least he has learned _something_ about picking his battles after all these years. 

“Rogers.” Steve brings the phone to his ear, perplexed by who could be calling the Avengers designated line. Only a few people have access to that number, and almost all of them are on the loading dock right now. 

“Are you ok?” Peter’s voice hits him, anxious and pitched high with panic. 

“Peter,” Steve sighs, relaxing slightly in recognition. “I’m fine. Why are you calling the emergency line?” He tenses back up, realizing Peter must have a dire problem if he’s utilizing this method of communication. “What's wrong? Are _you_ ok?”

“Am I…? What the... Have you seen the news? They’ve got pics and video of you being carried onto the Quinjet on a stretcher, bloody, unconscious—some people were saying you were _dead_. It's blowing up on social and all the networks are losing their shit, Steve!”

“Oh, uh…” Steve hadn't realized, what with being unconscious for most of the flight and preoccupied with other matters after that. “We’ve been a little busy, I haven't caught up on the news coverage yet."

“Yeah, you’ve been _busy_,” Peter turns on a dime from concerned to angry, just like that. “Tell me, am I even an Avenger at all, or am I just a joke to you guys?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Steve looks toward the people waiting for him to finish the call, but most of Ross’ men are focused on loading the containment unit off of the Quinjet, and Rhodes and Pepper are deep in a private conversation. Natasha shoots him a curious look, however. 

“Even Pepper was there. That was her, right? In the new suit? Tony told me once he was making one for her, it could only be her. You called _her_ in. But not me.”

“We didn’t call Pepper in, she showed up. I didn’t even know she _had_ a suit until today,” Steve says defensively. He doesn’t like Peter snapping at him like this, and he can feel his hackles rise. 

“I could have helped. How many times do I have to prove myself to you?” 

“It happened really fast, Peter.”

“Were you and Natasha already in Toronto when it happened?”

“No.”

“So you were in New York.”

“Yes.” 

“So you made a conscious decision not to loop me in. It would’ve taken an extra ten minutes, tops, to pick me up.” 

“I didn’t want to endanger your job, Peter. That’s it.” 

“That’s my job, it’s my call. Quit treating me like a fucking kid, Steve.”

“Peter…” Steve pinches two fingers between his eyebrows, feeling his head injury start to pound, pain radiating from the back of his skull forward to his temples. “You are calling the official Avengers emergency line while I’m on The Raft with Secretary Ross, securing a high-risk prisoner who just sent Toronto into a tailspin, so you can complain about being left out? Have I got this right?”

“Are you _serious_ right now?” 

“Stop acting immature, and I’ll stop treating you like a kid.” 

“I _called_ to see if you were all right because I didn’t fucking _know_ anything because you left me in the dark, _Captain_.” Peter snaps coldly. “But I guess you’re fine. So, fine.”

The line goes dead before Steve can say a word in reply. 

He stares at the small screen, _call ended_ confirming what just happened in tiny, red block print. 

He hands the sat phone off to one of the SHIELD officers and rejoins Natasha, Pepper, and Rhodes. The unit is fully out onto the dock now, Corruptor glaring out at them from behind glass and mouthing something under his breath. He is unceremoniously ignored.

“What was that about?” Natasha asks him as Steve stops at her side.

“Nothing.” He mumbles, standing stiffly upright and crossing his arms over his chest, trying not to give away how bothered he is by how that phone call went. 

Rhodes looks from them to the prisoner, considering.

“We should have called the raccoon in.” He taps on the glass like a bratty child taunting a dog at the pet store. “Yo, does your toxic-magic-touch-thingy work on fur?”

Corruptor snarls at him as they wheel him slowly away, and Rhodes shrugs, dropping the flippant attitude and getting serious. 

“But really…if Banner and Thor continue to be MIA, we need to do some recruitment and refill our roster. Especially if our other power hitter stays out in space. I mean…we got our bad guy in the end, but today was a mess.”

“I know,” Steve runs his hands through his hair. “I know.”

*******

“So, I don't know what I’m doing.” Peter blurts out the second Steve opens his apartment door, not giving the other man a chance to say anything else first.

Steve looks at him, equal parts confused and surprised; Peter can’t blame him. He’s been dodging Steve for close to three months now, brushing him off whenever he could and giving Steve the cold shoulder whenever they were forced to meet face-to-face. With the internship and then the new fall semester, avoiding him has been easier to accomplish than Peter expected.

But recently it had become _so_ easy that Peter realized that this was sadly no longer a one-man operation; Steve had quietly begun avoiding him too. That bothered him exceedingly, to the point where he has now shown up unannounced on Steve’s doorstep. 

Peter uses Steve’s shock against him, pushing passed him into Steve’s living room while Steve’s still caught off guard. He gets three steps in and then turns back, dropping his backpack onto one of Steve’s armchairs. 

“Don’t know what you’re doing with what, Peter?” Steve’s tone is unsure, and a little tired, like a fighter who has had enough but knows another punch is already coming his way. He closes the apartment door slowly and sinks back against it. They're a mere few feet apart--Steve's place is small--but it feels like there's an ocean of space between them. 

“I signed up for this cross-listed art history course at MassArt, and it’s only one month in and I am _drowning_, Steve. I never should have done this.”

“Why did you?” That’s not what Peter expected Steve to ask, but why would he start accurately predicting Steve’s behavior now? Steve stands up straight, about to take a step forward; Peter curls in on himself protectively. He kinda hates himself for being so vulnerable, but there's no way around it, no denying that he hasn't been doing so well without Steve around. “That sounds like a class for me, not a class for you.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Peter mutters, crossing his arms over his stomach and sighing. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well I only took it so that I could talk to you about all your art stuff, but then we suddenly weren’t talking anymore and now I’m in this dumb class and I don’t know _anything_ about art.”

“I’m happy to help you,” Steve replies, just like that, no questions asked. Peter groans in frustration. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“Can’t you be a jerk? It’s hard to stay angry at you when you’re so relentlessly decent.” Steve stares at him for a moment, then leans against the door again with a detached, icy air.

“Sorry.” He says flatly, his expression impenetrable. What Peter said wasn’t exactly nice, but his words must have hit a particularly sore spot to cause that reaction. “I’d try to be more of an ass, but it seems like you’ve got that market cornered.” 

It’s Peter’s turn to stare back, flummoxed. That’s the first time Steve has ever been so downright bitchy toward him. Instead of feeling hurt, Peter feels strangely pleased. A year ago, Steve would never have thought, much less dared, to be so mean. But the kid gloves are off now. 

He can’t help himself, a short, surprised laugh escaping his throat. 

Steve’s eyes narrow.

“Are you _okay_, Peter?” Steve moves toward him, lifting a hand like he’s going to touch Peter’s face. “You didn’t finally take Harry up on those uppers, did you?”

“No, of course not--I _knew_ I never should have told you about Harry and the pills,” Peter exclaims, exasperated. He darts back from Steve’s incoming touch and yanks open his backpack, and then digs through the notebooks and binders and other books inside. He pulls out the second-thickest textbook and holds it out to Steve, Botticelli’s _Portrait of a Woman_ taunting him from the front cover. “I need help with that. Can you help with that.” 

“Why don’t you sit down?” Steve gestures to the couch and Peter hesitates, not wanting to so easily capitulate to Steve’s orders, but then gives in and sits. It’s really no use to pretend he’s not going to do whatever Steve says. 

Steve leaves the art history textbook balanced on the arm of the couch and disappears into the kitchen for a minute. When he comes back, he has two bottles of beer in hand. 

When he holds one out to Peter, Peter looks from the bottle to Steve’s face and back again, bewildered. 

“I’m 19.” Peter wonders if this is a test of some kind. 

“In my time you woulda been okay to drink last year, so let’s just go by 1940s rules tonight,” Steve suggests, offering the beer to Peter again. He takes it tentatively, waiting for the catch. Steve sits down beside him on the couch. “You’re only having the one, though. So…” Peter shrugs, not about to argue. 

Steve takes a sip so Peter mimics him, keeping his eyes on Steve the whole time like he’s waiting for Steve to knock the bottle out of his hand at any moment. But Steve doesn't do cruel jokes.

“Let’s get started then. What era are you studying?” Steve picks up the textbook and starts flipping through it. 

_That’s it?_ Peter almost asks, though he manages to bite back the question in the nick of time. He can’t believe that after three months of near radio-silence, Steve is going to let him waltz back in here like nothing ever happened. They’re not going to talk about it? 

“We’re…last week we had an exam on pre-historic through medieval art, you know, Romanesque and Gothic. So, we’ve done Egyptian, Greek, Roman, Early Christian and Byzantine. I completely bombed the test, just got _obliterated_. We started Early Renaissance this week. We can do a short critical analysis of an example of Northern Renaissance over fall break for extra credit.”

“So, Van Eyck, Holbein, Dürer, Bosch, that whole lot?” Steve checks to see if he’s on the right track, reminding Peter exactly why he came here for help. 

“See, you drop those names like that’s nothing. You and your memory.”

“I studied art before the serum, Peter,” Steve reminds him distractedly, his eyes greedily roving over the pages of the textbook as he flips through. “I don’t remember it because of the photographic memory, I remember it because I love it.” Steve pauses, hand hitching as he turns the page, and then corrects himself. “Loved it.” 

“You’re majoring in social work, why, again?” Peter asks, and Steve frowns. He stops dawdling through the art and flips quickly to the correct chapter. 

“What is this, week six, week seven? And you’re already up to chapter eleven, already in the 15th century?”

“It’s a survey course, Steve. We’re whipping through centuries like Marty McFly in a DeLorean.”

“Marty McFly only went back to the 1950s,” Steve corrects off-handedly, hand drifting over a glossy reprint of the Arnolfini Portrait, both his eyes and his fingers gently tracing the delicately rendered folds of rich green cloth. 

“You’ve only seen the first movie, clearly, but I love the casual way you tried to school _me_ on popular culture,” Peter laughs lightly, feeling the tightness in his chest ease. "But the apprentice clearly has not yet become the master." Peter takes another drink, idly wondering, like he always does, why everyone at school loves beer so much when it tastes so terrible. 

At least Steve’s beer isn’t as wretched as the cheap stuff he has had to force down at house parties. 

“We should make plans to watch the other two sometime,” he offers, and Steve tears his attention away from the art history book, his confusion evident all over his face. “The other two _Back to the Future_ movies.” Still nothing seems to register. “We should watch them, because you haven’t seen them.” 

“Oh. Oh, right,” Steve nods, running a hand through his hair. Peter notices that he’s trimmed it—not by much, but enough to keep it on the short side of shaggy. “I’m sorry, I got carried away by all the photographs. Even though it’s been years now, I’m still amazed by how beautiful the colors are.”

“Only the colors?”

“Maybe more like the colors, especially. Before the serum, I was partially colorblind, you know.”

“I didn’t know, actually,” Peter admits. 

“Yeah…well, I was,” Steve shrugs. “It was different of course, seeing colors in everyday life, after the serum. But I went off to the war right away—if you don’t count pin-up girls, I never saw any art until I woke up sixty-seven years later.”

“No run-ins with the Monuments Men, then, I take it.”

“No, unfortunately not. After I woke up, I went to the Met every week for a stretch there at first. It was one place that could make me feel that...pure kind of wonder? Not the kind I got when I woke up in 2012, the kind laced with terror, but the kind I used to feel _before_, like when I first heard Frank Sinatra sing or saw Zack Wheat hit a ball or watched _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_. Hey—is that in here? Are you going all the way up through animation?” 

Steve is flipping through the book again, earnestly excited. That tension that had eased inside Peter now slowly melts into the warmth of affection. He’s nearly giddy with it, this sense of happiness over being at Steve’s place, hanging out like they’d never had a fight in the first place. 

When Peter doesn’t reply, Steve looks up at him, face pinching. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Peter replies, though he knows he’s smiling for no discernible reason. “You think you’ll be able to help me, then?”

“With the extra credit or the class in general?”

“Extra credit first, but ideally both?” Peter presses his luck, although the gamble isn’t extreme. Odds are that Steve is fine with both. 

“Okay. Well, let’s get the short essay squared away and then see about getting you in better shape for your final, starting with flashcards.” Steve lays it out firmly like he would a battle plan and Peter nods, getting on board. He grabs his laptop from his backpack, as well was his tattered, doodle-covered notebook and favorite pen, its end chewed until basically flat. He’s lucky it hasn’t exploded in his mouth. He’s made that mistake with other pens, blue ink splattering over his lips and tongue.

He sticks the pen in his mouth anyway out of habit and cracks open his laptop. He opens a blank Word document. He was planning on setting the computer back on the coffee table beside his open notebook so he and Steve could both see what he was writing, but something about that cursor blinking on that vast, white page entrances him, its steady beat taunting him with possibility. 

_I’m sorry._ Peter types. He hesitates, second-guessing the move, but then slowly turns the screen toward Steve. 

Steve’s gaze flicks down to read the text, and the corner of his mouth curls upward, the lines of his face going soft. He takes the computer from Peter and types something himself before handing it back.

_I’m sorry too._

Peter smiles back, equally gentle. He doesn’t want to wreck the moment. Steve swallows hard though, and breaks the silence that had suddenly descended upon them.

“I tried to talk to you. I called, texted, emailed. Then when it became clear you weren’t going to talk, I gave you space. I didn't want to keep trying to force it. But I think I was also crystal clear that I was around if you changed your mind. This wasn’t at all how I wanted things to go, so I hope I made that apparent.”

“I…I know,” Peter acknowledges, feeling ashamed. He was the one who refused to communicate like an adult, instead pouting around like a teenager. “Freezing you out probably wasn't the best tactic to prove that I’m mature.” 

Peter laughs a little, nervously, but Steve doesn’t humor him with a chuckle or smile. His expression is serious. 

“Peter…I’ve been down this road before and I can’t do it again. If I fuck up, or if you fuck up…we can’t operate like this, with disagreements just...exploding into all-out estrangement. We need to be able to talk to each other—maybe not in the heat of the moment when our tempers are up, lord knows I’m stubborn as a mule, but at least after. I don’t want to repeat what happened with Tony. I’m not…I don’t mean to be sanctimonious or condescending, and I don’t mean to imply that I’m not at fault. I’m equally to blame. I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

“Steve—”

“But that doesn’t change the fact that this is a two-person problem. It’s not going to be enough to adjust my behavior if—”

“Steve, listen to me,” Peter interrupts bluntly when it’s clear he’s going to power on, gearing up for a speech Peter doesn’t really need to hear. “I’m not Tony.” 

“I know that.”

“No, I really need you to hear me. _I’m not Tony_. You and I are different than all that.”

“The last three months kinda proves otherwise, Peter.”

“It was our first fight! We’ll get better at it.” 

“Better at fighting? Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Steve asks, skeptical. 

"You and Bucky were friends forever, right? You two didn't fight?"

"We fought all the fucking time," Steve laughs all too fondly. 

“Exactly. MJ says that if a friendship can’t survive one measly fight, it probably was never a real friendship to begin with.”

“She’s more mature and level-headed than both of us, it’s too bad _she_ can’t be an Avenger.” 

“She’d never have the patience to deal with us idiots,” Peter tries to imagine MJ in Natasha’s role, managing the team, and can only envision MJ reaming them all out with words that would have made Nick Fury blush. 

“Just…promise me that we’ll always talk, from here on out.” Steve holds his stare, blue eyes sincere and serious. “We’ve lost too much already.” 

“I promise,” Peter replies; it’s the easiest promise he’s ever made. Something hangs between them, heavy for a moment, and then Steve blinks. 

“So…back to Dürer and woodblock engravings? His printmaking will leave you breathless.” 

“Oh will it?” Peter snorts, disbelieving Steve's exuberance. Steve picks up his textbook and searches for the right page, then hands the book over. Peter’s eyes widen as he takes it all in. “Oh, wow. That’s metal. One dude carved all that?”

“Yes, and I’m never going to forget you called Albrecht Dürer ‘dude’.”

“I’ll make sure to reference him as such in my homework.” Peter leans forward and writes that down in his notebook like a real note. “_Dürer, el Duderino_.”

“When is this due?”

“When we’re back from break.”

“You have the long Columbus Day weekend too? ’Til Tuesday?”

“It’s Indigenous Peoples’ Day now, but yes.”

“Good to know,” Steve nods, making a mental note. “Columbus Day only became an official holiday back in ’37—I remember all the hullaballoo. Seemed like a stupid idea even then, if you had asked me, so can’t say I mind to see it changed.”

“Did you say 'hullaballoo'?” Peter bites his lip, holding back a laugh. Steve colors. 

“I don’t think you get to mock me for my word choices, _dude_,” he manages to shoot back, though his blush completely undermines the jab. While Peter does need Steve to share some of that art history love, he wants more of _this_, more of hanging out and teasing and laughing and getting back to normal.

“You know what, I’ve been so stressed about this all week long, and I have until Wednesday to turn it in…can we come back to this later? Did you finish bingeing _Game of Thrones_ without me?”

“I’m still right where we left off.” 

“I can call our usual into Not Ray’s and then—”

“Then I can quiz you about the Ghent Altarpiece until the delivery gets here?” Steve interrupts.

“But then _Thrones_? I’m really burning to find out if Jon Snow ever actually knows anything, and Ned is getting progressively more and more pissed that I’m not caught up. He wants to talk about the series finale.” 

He waves his cell phone at Steve, who looks down at the textbook in his hands as if considering that they should stay on task, but then nods in approval. As Peter’s scrolling through his saved contacts to find Steve’s pizza joint, Steve gets up from the couch and disappears into his bedroom.

When he ends his call with Not Ray’s, three of their favorite pies soon on their way, he turns back to find Steve walking back into the living room with a stack of index cards and two black markers. 

“All right, Pieter, time to learn about Northern Renaissance art.” He tosses Peter one of the markers and then hands over half the index cards. 

“Did you just ‘Pieter’ me?” 

“Because it’s the Dutch version of Peter…like Pieter Brueghel the Elder, or the Younger? Because we’re studying—” 

“It’s no longer a joke if you have to explain it, Steve.” Peter heaves a put-upon, overdramatic sigh. “I missed you, you gigantic dork.”

“Missed you too, kid.” Steve replies, and Peter almost rolls his eyes for real, ready to be annoyed at Steve, when he realizes Steve is smirking. He petulantly sticks out his tongue, and Steve returns fire by beaning him square in the forehead with his Sharpie. Peter mutters in pain and rubs his forehead, squinting. Steve arches an eyebrow. “Spidey Sense didn’t tell you that was coming?” 

“It only does that with threats, it doesn’t work with friends,” Peter explains even though the tease was in jest. 

“Glad I still qualify.” Steve smiles one of those dazzling, slow-spreading smiles of his and puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder. 

Peter takes the initiative and leans in, shifts closer, and turns Steve’s manful, restrained gesture into a real hug. 

“We’re gonna do this more often, okay?” Peter mumbles into Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s arms tighten around him. “We’re men who hug now.” 

“That’s okay by me,” Steve replies. Peter hopes he means it. 

He had really missed this. No, not this, not hugging, exactly, but Steve. 

He’d really missed Steve.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love, and comments are loved. I'd really like to know if anyone's actually interested in my continuing this, as I know it's not a popular pairing.


End file.
